


heartlines

by featherx



Series: requests [39]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Kid Fic, M/M, Minor Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), no plot only children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 99,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28382955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherx/pseuds/featherx
Summary: Byleth’s memories before the events of Imperial Year 1180 are vague at best and nonexistent at worse, but he does remember a few things. Once, when he was younger, he had been curious enough to poke around in Father’s things while he wasn’t looking; when Father suddenly called and asked what he was holding, Byleth replied, “A knife,” and then ran off before Father could grab it from him. He has no recollection of what happened after that, only that it probably hadn’t ended well for anyone involved.He’s reminded of this now as he holds the training lance behind him, backed up against the wall as he is. “I amnotletting you train our child in the lance, for the love of—”Byleth, Jeritza, and life after the war.
Relationships: Jeritza von Hrym/My Unit | Byleth
Series: requests [39]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1388335
Comments: 10
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: a continuation of [this bylitza fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356509), where they adopt a child from mercedes' orphanage post-CF! thanks so so much for requesting!!
> 
> this is what i've been working on for the past few months (and i'm... still not done rip, which is why chapter count is tentative), so i hope you all enjoy! the title is once again from [heartlines by florence + the machine](https://open.spotify.com/track/7fTqmkB0NuWJfOhZnrJSJg)

“So the Death Knight is just _here?_ ”

“He’s not the Death Knight most of the time, just Jeritza.” Edelgard sighed and crossed her arms. “It’s… a little difficult to understand at first, I know, but he’s not a bad person. Surely you spoke with him when you were still both faculty members, Professor?”

Byleth shook his head. He had very little recollection of Jeritza compared to this apparent alter ego of his — all he could really remember was that Jeritza was the fencing instructor, and was supposed to be the professor of the Black Eagles if Byleth hadn’t been hired by Rhea back then. Then he’d kidnapped Flayn, revealed himself as the Death Knight, and disappeared from the monastery, only ever showing his face to them whenever they were in a fight. Byleth couldn’t count the number of times he’d been hauled to the infirmary after a scuffle with him.

And now Edelgard was telling him he was on _their_ side?

Edelgard probably saw the confusion on his face and shook her head. “Never mind. It’ll be easier to just talk to him. Not that you have to get along with him, Professor, I know he can be a little… difficult, but really, if you and Hubert are on speaking terms, Jeritza is much the same.”

“Two Huberts…” Byleth shivered. “I see. I’ll make sure to steer clear of him. Thank you for the warning, Edelgard.”

“It wasn’t a—” Edelgard sighed again. “Oh, well. Whatever you say, Professor.”

It hadn’t been long since they had found Byleth (fished him up from a river, as both Hubert _and_ Linhardt so aptly put it) and updated him on the state of affairs in Fódlan, but settling back to normal life at the monastery-turned-military-war-camp was… harder than Byleth had expected. For him, it felt like barely any time had passed, just like sleeping one night and waking up the next morning, only he had slept for five years instead and everyone else had learned to go on without him.

It was… disorienting, to say the least. They hadn’t moved his things at all, and lost items from their academy days still cluttered up his desk; he made the mistake of returning a new, still unopened bottle of perfume to Lysithea and she hardly even remembered owning it. Everyone had changed, too, from Linhardt no longer shrinking away from blood to Caspar’s growth spurt bringing him up to nearly Byleth’s height now.

They were doing their best to treat him like always, he could tell, but their interactions were still awkward, stilted. Byleth hadn’t exactly been a model professor, he knew, but he found himself missing the way discussion and conversation flew naturally back then, even if it had been mostly the students speaking to him.

There was still time before the next battle at the end of the month, and Byleth wandered the monastery halls aimlessly — he _could_ say it was to familiarize himself with the place again, but that would be a lie when its overall layout hadn’t changed much at all. Just more Imperial soldiers and less Church staff, he supposed. It wasn’t an unwelcome change; he wasn’t going to miss the too-avid priests urging him to the cathedral for prayer and worship.

“…Ah. Excuse me.”

“No, it’s—” Byleth abruptly cut himself off. “It’s you.”

Beside him, the Death — no, Jeritza? Which one was it? — blinked blankly down at him before realization flickered in his eyes. They were blue, Byleth noted. He had never noticed before, what with his masks and the whole fighting to the death thing. “Professor. Oh, yes, you did rise from the dead, didn’t you? Welcome back.”

“Rise from the…” That was yet another way to put it. Byleth wondered who else was going to distort the story, and why Jeritza was acting like resurrection was a completely normal occurrence. “Yes, I… I suppose I did.” He frowned. “So, er, I’m afraid I wasn’t completely aware you were a part of the Strike Force now.”

Jeritza dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed.”

He offered nothing else, and Byleth wracked his head for what next he might say. Why had he initiated conversation again? This was why he had practically pleaded Edelgard to keep him out of anything requiring strategy and thinking for at least a few weeks, because it looked like his brain hadn’t woken up with the rest of him just yet. “Well… that is… the Death Knight…”

“Oh.” It was Jeritza’s turn to frown. “Yes, him. I am aware he has injured you a number of times, hasn’t he? I do not entirely understand his reasons, but whatever it is he did, I apologize on his behalf. I have been taking measures to suppress him as much as possible, so there should be no cause for concern. Now, if you might excuse me…”

Byleth had barely even begun to process his words before Jeritza turned around and left, walking faster than Byleth could catch up — or perhaps that was just the work of one with longer legs.

What was that all about? Byleth stood there, feeling incredibly stupid, and tried to sort the information out in his head. So the Death Knight was… part of Jeritza somehow, like a second personality, and the two of them were as different as night and day. Had he apologized in this manner to Professor Manuela as well? But moreover, was the Jeritza that Byleth knew, the silent, distant fencing instructor, always this polite? The man was a walking mystery right now, even more unfamiliar than the rest of his former students combined.

But… it was a bit refreshing to speak with someone who wasn’t trying to pretend everything was alright, at least, or that Byleth _hadn’t_ been gone for five years. Jeritza himself didn’t seem to have changed one bit, from what Byleth remembered of his appearance. Perhaps he could ignore the whole Death Knight thing — or eventually accept it, couldn’t be that hard — and find out more about who Jeritza was.

The Byleth of five years ago would have questioned his decision now, but it sounded like a much more interesting pastime than dodging Edelgard’s well-meaning questions about the upcoming battle anyway. Byleth picked up the pace and followed Jeritza to the dining hall.

Byleth’s memories before the events of Imperial Year 1180 are vague at best and nonexistent at worse, but he does remember a few things. Once, when he was younger, he had been curious enough to poke around in Father’s things while he wasn’t looking; when Father suddenly called and asked what he was holding, Byleth replied, “A knife,” and then ran off before Father could grab it from him. He has no recollection of what happened after that, only that it probably hadn’t ended well for anyone involved.

He’s reminded of this now as he holds the training lance behind him, backed up against the wall as he is. “I am _not_ letting you train our child in the lance, for the love of—”

“A little training never hurt anyone,” Jeritza insists, leaning even closer. His palms are flat on the wall of either side of Byleth, and their faces are close enough that the tiniest bit of movement would have them bumping noses. For how long Byleth has been sleeping in the same bed as this man (and more), he has no idea why he’s growing dizzy just from this proximity.

“Alright, yes, that’s true,” Byleth allows, mollifying the intense gleam in Jeritza’s eyes somewhat, “but _right after_ they come home? Really?”

“Well, when else shall we start, then?”

“I don’t know, perhaps _after_ we finish up with their bedroom?”

Jeritza looks at him a moment longer, then sighs but finally relents, drawing back from Byleth and staring to the side with a pout. Byleth can finally let himself breathe, although he has to admit he is the slightest bit disappointed at the distance. “I simply think the sooner, the better.”

Arrangements with the orphanage had been smooth, and barely a week after they had made the decision to take the child in, the papers had been finalized. Granted, there wasn’t much to finalize on the papers at all, considering most of it is full of blanks Byleth and Jeritza will have to fill up themselves: no name, no birthdate, just ‘Fódlan’ as their place of birth… practically only the child’s age, six years old, is confirmed. Byleth wonders exactly how they’re going to figure out a birthday for them.

Right now they’re busy furnishing the spare room they had previously been using as storage to serve as the child’s bedroom from hereon, and moving all the things there is more difficult and time-consuming than either of them had expected. Why did Byleth never throw away all of his old, broken fishing rods? Why does Jeritza insist on keeping so much garbage? They’ve had to rearrange practically the entire house just to make space for all the trash they’ve collected over the years. Perhaps in the future they can get a storehouse built behind the cottage or something, but right now they have their hands full just trying to stay on task.

Jeritza, especially. Byleth squints at him when he moves to examine the contents of a wooden box. One would think he’d rather not let the child be too close to any weapons unless absolutely necessary, and yet it turns out to be the complete opposite, much to Byleth’s consternation…

When Byleth is sure Jeritza isn’t going to turn around and make a grab for the lance, he sets it to lean against the wall. There’s the light sound of footsteps and then the door creaking open, and he looks up to see the child — _their_ child, sometimes he still forgets — standing by the doorway, observing them curiously. “Oh, hello. Don’t touch the lance. Did you just wake up from your nap?”

They nod, their messy brown hair bouncing along with them.

Byleth hums. “That’s right, we haven’t even given you a name yet…”

“I think they should choose their own name,” Jeritza suggests. “Builds character.”

“Jeritza, that was just you.”

“Do you have any name ideas? I certainly do not,” Jeritza huffs. “Besides, they’re their own person, they can pick their own name. If they dislike it when they’re older than they can change it as well.”

It’s… certainly one way to go around things. Edelgard had chosen the _Flame Emperor_ moniker for herself as well, and Bernadetta had made a passing mention about choosing her own name at some point… are all people from the Empire like this? Byleth shakes his head and turns to face their child, who has tottered inside to look around the room. “What do you think?”

Silence. They tilt their head in clear confusion.

They do speak when they need to, but so far Byleth hasn’t heard more than a few words from them either. It looks like it will take more than just the amount of time they’ve spent together to get them to open up more… not that Byleth really minds, though. They remind him of Jeritza, quiet as they are. “Hm… Well, we can’t just keep calling them ‘the child,’” Byleth says, turning to Jeritza once more. “What if it takes them forever to think of a name for themselves?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Jeritza grudgingly admits. “What do you think sounds nice, then?”

Byleth considers it. “First of all…” He crouches down to be eye-level with their child, who stares back at him, all bright blue eyes and piercing gaze. “Mercedes never told us, and it wasn’t indicated in your papers either. What _is_ your gender?”

There is an extremely long pause. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of staring at each other, their child opens their mouth. “…Gender?”

They speak the word as if hearing it for the first time. All Byleth can say is, “Oh.”

“It seems Sister made the right choice,” Jeritza says, nodding approvingly.

“That… hm.” Byleth supposes the whole concept of gender is more of a hassle than anything. Maybe Mercedes _did_ make the right choice. “Ah, whatever. You think of a name for yourself to keep busy, and then tell us whenever you’re ready, alright, kid?” he says, rubbing their child’s head in a futile attempt to smoothen down the mussed curls. He gets the tiniest hint of a smile and a nod for his efforts.

It takes Byleth the rest of the day to realize he’d sounded a bit like Father, there.

They manage to clear the room out before night falls, just in time for their child to get (back) in bed — do children really sleep this much, or is it just them specifically? Byleth’s sure he hadn’t needed at least three naps within the day to function. Then again, Linhardt is still exactly like that as an adult, so perhaps this is normal. “There, goodnight,” Jeritza murmurs, tugging the blanket up to their child’s chin, with as much care as he does for Byleth. “Sleep well. Tomorrow I will try to convince this man here to let you hold a lance…”

“You are not convincing me of anything,” Byleth says, but he can’t quite find it in himself to mean it. He brushes stray hair away from their child’s face and smiles when they tilt their face into his touch. “Goodnight. Sweet dreams.”

They turn to leave, and Byleth is absently wondering what they’re going to do tomorrow when their child suddenly sits up and grabs onto Jeritza’s wrist, staring wordlessly up at him. Byleth’s immediate first thought is to ask if something is wrong, but Jeritza stares wordlessly back until he nods, walks to the other side of the room, and… “How exactly did you understand that as a cue for a book?” Byleth sighs, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

Jeritza shrugs, already grabbing two nearby chairs for him and Byleth to sit by their child’s bedside. “It couldn’t have been anything else, really.”

“Hmm. Now I almost wish we’d all just stayed in the same bed,” Byleth says, lightheartedly, as he takes his seat beside Jeritza. The book is some sort of fantasy fiction novel about a group of rebels overthrowing a corrupt system, which doesn’t really seem suitable as a bedtime story, but he’s not about to say that. “Your voice can be soothing when you want it to be.”

Without looking away from the book, Jeritza turns the page to the first chapter and says, “I seem to recall a very fascinating reason as to why you wanted the child to have a separate bedroom.”

“Wh—” Byleth ignores the warmth creeping up his cheeks and grumbles, doing his best to pretend he isn’t as flustered as he is, “You say that as if _you_ didn’t want it either.”

Their child looks between the two of them, looking bewildered.

It takes a surprisingly long while until they drift off, with Jeritza already at the tail end of the second chapter; they make sure their child is asleep, before returning the book on the shelf and returning to their own bedroom. Byleth is already sleepy after listening to Jeritza read, and he had nearly fallen asleep himself sitting up there, but when he catches Jeritza’s eyes and intense stare he snaps wide awake.

They’re already in bed, he belatedly notices — he’d moved largely on habit. There’s no peacefully dozing child in between them either, only a narrow strip of empty space that Byleth is very sure can be filled.

He clears his throat. “Do you want to…?”

He trails off, awkwardly, not sure what words should naturally follow. In return he gets no response, aside from Jeritza’s silent stare and his callused hand atop Byleth’s. “Jeritza?” he prompts, when the quiet stretches out.

Jeritza blinks. “Only if you want to. You are sleepy.”

“Were.” Byleth slowly shifts closer to him. They’re lying down beside each other, and this close he can feel that tempting warmth from Jeritza again — they’re as close to each other as they had been earlier, if not closer. “So? Do you want to?”

“I see we’re putting the bed to good use already,” Jeritza observes, a small, rare smile on his face.

“Well, you’re the one giving me that look. Am I supposed to just turn over and close my eyes?”

“No.” Jeritza gently tugs him even closer, and now their chests are pressed flush against each other’s, his warm breath fanning across Byleth’s cheeks. “Keep your eyes open and look at me.”

Why does he have to be like this? Byleth should rightly be used to it by now, and yet he can barely manage more than a blink as his heart rattles around in his rib cage, and it only shakes harder when Jeritza shifts to hover above him, cups his face in his hands, and presses their lips together in a soft, slow kiss, their lips sliding against each other’s. Byleth sighs into it, tilting his head, letting himself melt into Jeritza’s touch, that welcome warmth and how it fills Byleth’s entire body up with the heat.

Yes, this is how it should be — this is the life Byleth had fought in the past two wars to live in, and this is the man Byleth had fought in the past two wars to live with. The child sleeping in the room just a minute away from them is the child Byleth had fought and bled and killed in the past two wars to have. This is the future Edelgard had spoken of and promised them.

For all his intense staring, Jeritza is the one who dozes off first without advancing further than several long minutes of nothing but kissing lazily in bed, making this one of the few times he falls asleep before Byleth. At first Byleth doesn’t believe it until he pokes Jeritza’s cheeks and only gets a low snore out of him. “I can’t believe you,” he mutters, smiling as he settles back by Jeritza’s side. He probably looks stupidly fond right now, like what Mercedes always sees on his face whenever they visit the orphanage. “All that talk and now you’re asleep.”

He’s too amused to be bothered, though. Byleth tugs the blankets back over the both of them, then rests his head in the crook of Jeritza’s neck.

For some reason, their child is already awake the next morning, something Byleth finds out when he gets up early to start with breakfast. Adhering to an early wake-up call used to be easy, as a mercenary turned teacher turned army general, but now when there’s no real need to be up early… Byleth sighs. He misses the warmth of both Jeritza and their bed already.

“How long have you been up?” Byleth asks. They’re seated by the dining table, scrawling on the notebook they had brought with them from the orphanage. It looks like it might be a diary of some sort, but Byleth hasn’t bothered to look — it’s none of his business, really.

They’re quiet for a moment, before they say, “Sun.”

“As… soon as the sun was up?”

They nod. Byleth wonders what on earth possessed them to do that. “Ah, well. You’re probably hungry, aren’t you? Give me a minute.” They probably won’t say no to eggs, will they? All Byleth really knows is that they have a sweet tooth almost as bad as Jeritza’s, but he hasn’t seen them saying no to anything else, though he does remember them beaming at the pheasant roast from before.

Jeritza walks out a few minutes later, at the same time their child got up and starts — oh, _no —_ poking at the lance in the corner of the living room. Byleth had forgotten to put it outside the house along with the rest of their weapons yesterday. Jeritza, of course, takes notice of this right away. “Are you interested?” he asks, crouching down to be eye-level with them. “I’d be happy to teach you in it.”

They look thoughtful, before shrugging.

“I see,” Jeritza calmly says, like that shrug had at all been an understandable response. “Are there any other weapons you are more interested in?”

They look thoughtful once more, before shrugging once more.

“…This is more difficult than I expected,” Jeritza mutters.

Byleth returns from the kitchen with plates of eggs — not very good eggs, but he’ll make up for it later during lunch, maybe. Hopefully. “They know faith magic, don’t they? And it looks like they’re fond of copying people, like with Mercedes. They could probably pick up the sword quickly enough.” Then, quickly, before Jeritza can get any ideas, “That wasn’t an invitation, no.”

Visibily disappointed, Jeritza asks, “When, then? They cannot go to school without knowing a thing about weapons.”

Byleth blinks, slowly. “School.”

“Children go to school.” Jeritza pauses here, as if he himself is unsure about that. “Do they not?”

“Well.” Byleth clear his throat. “Right. Yes.” He had learned the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic from Father, just what he would need to get by, and he taught himself the rest when he had suddenly been thrust upon with the mantle of professor in an academy full of educated nobles, but he had never gone to a formal school. It would have tied them down too much, and that was the last thing a band of traveling mercenaries needed. Jeritza, on the other hand… had he attended school, once, before Edelgard took him in? Even now parts of Jeritza’s past remain mysteries to him, shrouded in a haze of uncertainty.

“In any case,” Byleth says, realizing he’d been silent and staring for a bit too long, “is weapons mastery really something six-year-old children need when they get to school? I find that difficult to believe…”

Jeritza huffs. “You told me yourself you had mastered the art of knives at six years old.”

“That…” He’s right. Damn. “That was a special case,” Byleth mumbles, trying to save face, which is hard when Jeritza is smirking smugly and even their child looks a bit amused. “I was born a mercenary. This child… they were born in the middle of the war, but that time is past us now.”

Jeritza is quiet in contemplation for a while, and their child takes the time to wander over to the dining table, plopping back down on their chair and starting on the eggs after a nod at Byleth. “You are right,” Jeritza finally says, following them to the table. “Still, one cannot predict the future, and you know as well as I do that the emperor’s reign is being challenged, even now. She plans to step down in a few years once she has found and raised a suitable heir, but it seems entirely possible a rebellion will occur before then…”

Much as Byleth doesn’t want to admit it, Jeritza’s words are true. It’s been almost two years since the war ended and Rhea was overthrown, but tensions are still running high, mostly in Faerghus where there are groups who wish to avenge the late King Dimitri. Relations with Almyra and Brigid are steady, at the very least, thanks to Claude and Petra respectively, but Byleth doubts foreign forces would be of much help if Fódlan ever comes to in-fighting once again.

He’s broken out of his thoughts by the slide of a plate across the table. Their child looks hopefully up at him, and Byleth indulgently helps them to more eggs. Is this healthy? He knows one egg a day is healthy, but several? Oh, well. “Alright, fine.”

Jeritza blinks. “Fine?”

“Fine, you can teach them with the lance,” Byleth says, smiling at how Jeritza’s eyes widen, “but _only_ if I get to teach them swordplay too.”

“Hmph.” Jeritza returns the smile with his own, although there’s a familiar challenging glint in his gaze that hadn’t been there before. “I shall ensure it their lancemanship will be far better.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Their child looks back and forth between them, before returning to their eggs.

There’s a school for young children in the nearby village that almost all the townspeople had studied in, and the tuition isn’t too bad, so after breakfast they make arrangements for their child to study there as soon as possible. Thankfully the beginning of the school year is just in another month, which should hopefully be enough time for their child to think of a name for them to write down on the papers.

“What are we going to do if they simply… do not have a name?” Jeritza asks, when they’re walking away from the school. The weather is nice, the breeze ruffling Byleth’s hair.

“Well, we could write down a placeholder.” Byleth’s sure there are options to change the name written on the papers, considering Jeritza is Jeritza.

Jeritza looks convinced for all of two seconds. “Yes, but… what will we _call them?_ ”

Byleth winces. “That… I haven’t thought about that.” They’ve been doing fine just saying “hey,” “kid,” or “you,” but then it feels more like they’re ordering a dog around, and Byleth isn’t foolish enough to think they can keep this up forever. “I’m sure Mercedes has a book of baby names. If the child thinks of nothing, perhaps we can ask her then.”

“Baby names.” Jeritza looks deep in thought. “What sort of name would suit them? Byleth… where did your father get that name from?”

“I think… it was… from a spellbook on demonology.”

“Demonology.”

Byleth scratches his cheek. “I remember he told me he and my mother agreed to it before my birth. I have heard of… demonology, but… anyway, I’d rather not name another child after a demon,” he says, hastily. “What about ‘Jeritza?’ I’ve never heard of anything even somewhat similar.”

“That would be because it was a name I chose for myself.” Jeritza shrugs. “The emperor helped me, though back then I was but ten years of age, and her six…”

“It suits you, though.” Byleth sighs. “But it looks like neither of us have normal names.” Though maybe the abnormality cancels it out and makes their names normal, like how it goes in certain mathematical procedures. Wait, is that even right? This is why Byleth had been in charge of teaching the students weaponry rather than math…

“It stands to reason our child will not have a normal name either, then,” Jeritza says, pulling Byleth out of his thoughts.

Despite how many times he’s used that phrase in his head, it still makes his heart jump and do a little dance whenever he actually _hears_ it. _Our child._ Byleth smiles and takes Jeritza’s hand in his own, relishing the warmth of his palm. “Yes. Of course.”

It turns out their worries were for naught, though, when they return home and find their child flipping through the book of baby names they had just been talking about. When did Mercedes give that to them? Actually, did they just happen to steal it from her the last time they visited the orphanage? “Well, hello,” Byleth greets, rather nonplussed. “Are you thinking of a name?”

With a determined expression and an enthusiastic nod, their child runs up to them and shoves the book up with both arms. Byleth and Jeritza both still have to bend down to see the name they’re pointing at clearly, but the sentiment is appreciated. “This is the one you’ve picked out?” Byleth asks.

A nod. Jeritza squints at the words. “How do you pronounce this? _Shell?_ ”

Byleth looks at it as well. “No, it must be _Seel._ ”

“What sort of name is that? _Shell_ sounds better.”

“It says right there—”

“ _See-el._ ” Their child pouts, as if extremely disappointed in them.

By this point, Byleth is itching to write down and record every single instance they speak. “What?”

“ _See-el,_ ” they repeat, and it takes Byleth a moment to realize it must be their preferred pronunciation of the name. “Ciel.”

“Ciel,” Jeritza repeats, thoughtfully. When the child smiles, his lips twitch upwards in a ghost of one as well. “It’s a nice name.”

Byleth smiles, stroking down their child’s — no, _Ciel’s_ ruffled brown hair, the ends sticking up strangely. Had they been rolling around in flour or something? Some of the ends are colored a lighter brown, as compared to the rest of their hair. “What does it mean?” he asks, idly. He looks at the book again, searching for the name’s meaning. “Oh… ‘heavenly,’ is it?”

Ciel nods. “From heaven. Like… Like goddess.”

“It looks like Sister taught them about religion,” Jeritza notes.

But Ciel shakes their head. “Not Mercie.” They point to the window — the _open_ window, Byleth realizes with a start. He’s sure they had locked all the doors and windows before they left this morning; is Ciel even tall enough to reach the window? “Someone told me…”

Blood freezes in his veins. “Someone was here?” Byleth asks, panic beginning to thrum in time with his heartbeat. Jeritza is already at the other end of the room, having moved without Byleth noticing, and making to wrench open the door they keep their weapons in.

Ciel nods, looking as calm and unbothered as ever. “Friend,” they reassure. “Very green.”

Jeritza pauses, thankfully without his scythe in hand like Byleth had been half-expecting. “Green…? The only people who know we live here are the former members of the Strike Force.” He turns to look at Byleth, raising an eyebrow. “Could it have been that… what was his name. Hevring?”

“There’s no reason Linhardt would go all the way out here without sending a letter first,” Byleth reasons. In truth, there’s no reason Linhardt would go all the way out here and then leave right away without taking a nap on the couch first, something the man has done more than a few times by now. He returns his gaze to Ciel, steadying his hands and placing them on their shoulders. “Can you describe this friend a bit more, Ciel?”

It’s the first time either of them have referred to them by name, and Ciel brightens upon hearing it. “Um. Told me to tell Byle to brush his hair.”

Byleth blinks, slowly. The words take time to register in his head. Then he says, “Oh.”

“Oh?” Jeritza frowns.

“I see.” Byleth smiles. “Yes, I know now.”

He looks out the window, and though he sees nothing but their garden and the woods beside their cottage, he knows she must still be out there, somewhere, watching over them. When the Crest of Flames disappeared from his blood, when his heart broke free from its unbeating chains and started again, he had thought it meant Sothis was gone forever from this world, leaving her creations to fend for themselves once more. Perhaps she had even left him out of spite, after what he had done to the Immaculate One.

Edelgard had the right idea about overthrowing Rhea and the Church as a whole, Byleth will not argue. But he had a lost a dear friend in the last battle, too, without having even been able to give her a proper goodbye.

 _Heavenly,_ huh.

He looks back down at their child, big blue eyes wide and curious. “Ciel. It suits you.”

Ciel beams and clings to his torso. Jeritza returns to their side, still looking curious but no longer ready to dive into a manhunt. “You must like seashells,” he says. The comment is so out of context that Byleth doesn’t immediately realize he’s still stubbornly sticking to the _shell_ pronunciation. “We should pay a visit to a beach soon. Are there any nearby?”

“For goodness’ sake—”

Byleth’s not sure if it’s normal, but he’s certain Ciel shouldn’t be as small as they are, even if they’re still a young child. They topple over whenever they try to use their shortest, lightest training lance, and they can barely even lift a sword, so after some deep, thoughtful discussion, Byleth and Jeritza agree on starting out with knives first.

“Let’s see… it looks like daggers are commonly used as weapons elsewhere in the world, though not so much in Fódlan,” Jeritza says, flipping a page of an old textbook Byleth has no idea where he retrieved from. “It would be good to study more about this…”

Byleth stares at Ciel holding a kitchen knife. “You know, I’m not sure this is such a good idea anymore.”

“Nonsense, they’ll be fine. You said you were much like them at their age.”

“Yes, but I also injured myself far too many times to count,” Byleth sighs. Those memories he can remember, for some reason… probably because of the pain, and also probably because even now it’s difficult to forget Father, holding him when he had been small enough to still be held, and blowing at the cuts on his hands. “The only reason I don’t have scars all over my hands is because of my Crest, though I hadn’t realized it at the time.”

“Really?” Without any warning whatsoever, Jeritza places the book on his lap and takes Byleth’s hand in his own instead. “Hm. These are calluses from handling weapons… and…” He looks up at Byleth’s face, looking unimpressed. “Why are you getting shy now.”

“I — I am _not,_ ” Byleth stammers, though he doesn’t snatch his hand away from Jeritza’s. His face is almost certainly burning up, though, which doesn’t help his case.

“You are. What is with you? We have done much more than just this.”

“I-It — Don’t say that! And — I don’t know!” Byleth sputters.

Jeritza gives him a long, inscrutable look, then very slowly lifts Byleth’s hand up to his own mouth. “Apparently,” he says, slowly, as if making sure Byleth understands every word, “some people are… partial to having their fingers sucked.”

Byleth’s head feels ready to spin right off his neck. “Where on _earth_ did you hear that from,” he chokes out, too astonished to even make his question sound like one.

“Oh, you know—” Jeritza shrugs. “Around.”

“ _Around?_ ”

“The market vendors have quite a lot to say when I am browsing.”

Byleth is never letting this man step outside the house again. “How did you even end up having that sort of conversation?”

But Jeritza is not one to be deterred. “Stop asking useless questions. Do you want me to or not?”

He doesn’t have to specify what exactly he’s going to do, and the very thought has Byleth’s entire body heating up again, even in the loose clothes he’s wearing. “T… Th… n-not in front of…” Oh, hell, had they forgotten about Ciel? Byleth hurriedly stands, eager for the distraction. “Ciel? Where did they go? Don’t tell me they’re going to cut something up.”

Jeritza stares up at him, looking rather disappointed. “Is this your way of telling me we shall save this for later, then?” he asks. Without waiting for an answer, he gets to his feet as well and starts searching as well. “Very well, then. Where did they run off to…”

They search the house — one of the benefits of having a small cottage is that it barely takes them any time to find Ciel, who has climbed up onto a stool in the kitchen to jab the knife they’re holding into some fish Byleth had caught earlier that day. “Oh,” Byleth says, upon finding them. “Maybe they want to be a cook in the future.” He feels oddly proud seeing them there. Is that the right reaction to watching your six-year-old child stab at a fish with a kitchen knife?

“Somehow, even without being blood-related to you, they inherited your ridiculous love of fish,” Jeritza sighs.

“It is not ridiculous! It is a perfectly reasonable culinary preference.” It occurs to Byleth that Ciel might be imitating how _he_ cooks, and the realization makes his chest swell up with an indescribably warm feeling.

“Right,” Jeritza says, his voice perfectly devoid of emotion. Slowly he takes the knife from Ciel, drawing a sad whine from them. “We can teach you how to cut up fish when you’re tall enough to reach the counter on your own,” he tells them. “For now, come away. There should be a training dummy in the garden…”

“They can learn to throw the knives as well,” Byleth chimes in. “Could help with hunting small animals in the woods.”

Had he really been against doing this before? A part of him is used to the mercenary lifestyle, where one’s preferred weapons became an extension of their arm and the only thing you could rely on more than your fellow mercenaries was your sword blade. But another part of him, the part that had lived through both Fódlan’s war and the war against the Agarthans, wants nothing more than to keep this child — their child — away from violence and bloodshed, to ensure they grow up knowing only love and happiness.

But he knows as well as Jeritza likely does that Fódlan is a continent that has always known war. If a new one does come around, an uprising that their emperor cannot so easily quell, then it would have been even worse to leave Ciel vulnerable and defenseless with no knowledge of how to wield a weapon.

Byleth watches Jeritza lead Ciel out to the garden, and how they both get sidetracked from training to pet the cats that gather at their feet instead. Softly, he murmurs, “Are you watching? Now, still?”

There’s no response, of course. He hadn’t been expecting one. But he wonders how Sothis feels all the same, about the course of this world and what Byleth had done against Rhea, her daughter. If Sothis had still been able to speak with him during the final battle against the Immaculate One, would she have agreed with Byleth? Would she have fought with him, continued lending him her power until the very last moment, knowing it would be the last time they would ever be at each other’s sides again? Or would she have screamed at him to stop, to find another way to bring Rhea back to her senses?

It is impossible to tell, now. She is gone, after all, and Byleth no longer even has the Crest of Flames that connected him to her. He’d had to leave the Creator Sword down in the Holy Tomb of Garreg Mach monastery and take the Seiros Sword for himself instead, though he tries not to use it unless absolutely necessary. With even his hair and eyes back to their natural blue, it would be foolish of him to think he can speak with her still, even now.

And yet.

Ciel is fairly decent with knives and daggers, after Jeritza shows them what to do a few times and they copy him down to the angle of his throw, but even when a month comes and goes, they’re still far too small to lift a sword or lance. It’s fine, there’s no hurry, although Byleth sincerely hopes they have a growth spurt waiting for them later in life. Being short is hard.

The first day of school, with Ciel’s patchwork assortment of materials and textbooks they had thrown together in the secondhand shops, is about as difficult as Byleth had expected. They’re standing motionless in front of the school gates, the other parents and students parting around them in whispering waves, and Ciel absolutely refuses to let go of Jeritza’s hand.

Not for the first time, Jeritza sighs, “I am not leaving you forever. I promise you that.”

Why does he make it sound so dramatic? “Ciel, it’s just like when Jeritza would visit at the orphanage for a few hours then leave afterwards,” Byleth tries to explain, bending down to smooth down their perpetually-ruffled hair. It’s a lost cause, but he does his best anyway, if only because he’s noticed that their shivering and trembling abate slightly at the motions. “This time is just the opposite. We’ll be back before you know it.”

Ciel loosens their grip on Jeritza’s hand, looking pleadingly up at Byleth, but they still look reluctant.

“…I know.” With his free hand, Jeritza digs around in his pocket before retrieving a knife — wait, a _knife!?_ — and handing it to Ciel — _handing it to Ciel!?_ “If you feel you are in danger, use this.”

“ _Wait, no._ ” Byleth grabs the knife before Ciel, looking excited as can be, can take it. “Jeritza, they might hurt the other children!”

Jeritza’s expression is devoid of even a shred of compassion. “And?”

“We don’t need them getting expelled on the first day of school,” Byleth says, before realizing his primary concern should probably be the well-being of the aforementioned other children. Well, whatever. They’re not _his_ children, they can take care of themselves. “At least wait a few weeks before arming them with a weapon…”

“Hmph. How about this?” Jeritza takes the knife back, then turns to face the confused Ciel once more. “If anyone tries to hurt or injure you, bring this out, and make sure only other students see it, not the teacher. The threat is all they need.”

Ciel’s eyes _sparkle_ as they make grabby hands for the knife.

Byleth buries his face in his hands. “ _Jeritza._ ”

“Would you rather wait until they get hurt before arming them? I prefer prevention from the beginning,” Jeritza says. He keeps the knife out of Ciel’s arms’ reach first, though, looking to Byleth for agreement.

Perhaps he should have known from the start that this was not an argument he could have possibly won. “I suppose you have a point, but…” Byleth sighs and nods down at Ciel. “Alright, _fine,_ but no actual harming anyone. Remember, this is a school, not a battlefield or our hunting grounds. Threatening…” Byleth tilts his head, trying to remember any instances where he had to do something similar before. There are… far too many memories to focus on specifically. “Threatening is fine, but only that.”

Jeritza cracks a smile. Ciel nods rapidly, their hair bouncing with each nod, and takes the knife, tucking it into one of the many pockets of their long coat. Byleth can tell they had hidden it in the most ideal position for them to easily take it out later, which has him torn between pride and worry.

They watch Ciel hurry into the school building before they get marked late. “If we get a report from a teacher after this, you will be dealing with it,” Byleth says.

Jeritza nods solemnly. “I shall accept the responsibility.”

Thankfully they do not, in fact, get a report from a teacher, which means the several hours Byleth spent worrying on his lower lip until it bled was for nothing after all. (It did have Jeritza stare at him for several long minutes, and then doing much more afterwards.) When they pick up Ciel later that day, outside the school gates once more, they don’t look very different from how they had looked earlier that morning, though Byleth’s not sure why he had been expecting much of a change.

“Did you make any…” Jeritza’s expression contorts, as if unused to the word he is about to say. “Friends?”

Silence. Ciel tilts their head, looking puzzled.

“You don’t know what friends are?” Byleth asks.

A pause, before Ciel shrugs. “Don’t need.”

“Oh. Ciel, of course you need friends. Everyone has some.”

Ciel shrugs again, shaking their head once. “I have Byle and Jeri.”

Byleth stares down at them, feeling ready to cry.

Jeritza looks at Byleth like he’s an idiot, then says, “Very well. If not friends, have you at least made any allies? You will need people to rely on someday too.”

“You make it sound like they’re already going to war,” Byleth says, after collecting himself.

“What little I remember of my experience at school are not fond memories. It certainly felt like it, some days.”

There’s a darkness in his words that Byleth hadn’t been expecting, and he blinks at Jeritza, whose gaze has lowered to the path before them as they walk back home. Right… before meeting Edelgard, Jeritza had lived as Emile together with Mercedes and Baron Bartels when he was younger. But to have both a terrible home and school life… Byleth hadn’t thought about that. Had it been prejudice against him, perhaps? He’s heard from Mercedes that Jeritza had been shy and quiet even then, and both of those traits would have made it easy for other insensitive children to pick on him.

Then, out loud, Ciel murmurs, “Someone…”

“Someone?” Byleth and Jeritza say, simultaneously.

“Someone… liked my knife.”

Byleth almost trips on a pebble. “What?”

“Said it was cool.” Ciel nods importantly. “Said, um… wants to train too, but her parents don’t want…”

“Oh. Such close-minded parents,” Jeritza says, shaking his head.

Byleth feels similarly, although he’s compelled to say, “Actually, I think I would call them rational,” all the same. This is peacetime, after all, although perhaps not for always.

“If you like her, you should invite her over,” Jeritza says, completely ignoring Byleth. “We’ll teach her too.”

“That is definitely not a good idea.”

“Okay,” Ciel agrees, looking up at Jeritza only.

“You two,” Byleth sighs, but there’s a fondness in his voice he can’t quite keep out entirely. Jeritza gives him an amused look, and with Ciel holding on to both their hands between them, he leans over them and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Byleth’s lips. Byleth nearly expires right there. “Wh — _Jeritza?_ ”

“What?” Jeritza has the gall to sound confused, although teasingly so. “Am I not allowed to show you my affections?” He glances around them, at the other parents tittering and the students looking grossed out, and huffs. “Let them stare. I find I quite like it when others know we are together.”

“You…” Byleth looks around them as well, then shakes his head and tugs on Jeritza’s collar as well to pull him in for a proper kiss.

Between them, Ciel mutters, “Gross.”

Ciel is smart. They catch on to the lessons fast enough, likely because Mercedes had already taught them the basics back at the orphanage, which is good because Byleth highly doubts neither he nor Jeritza would be able to teach them anything aside from how to swing a sword and how to hold a lance. Slowly they grow less and less reluctant to leave Byleth and Jeritza’s sides in the mornings of school days, and they start learning more and more techniques with the knife. It’s a little frightening how well they can hide it, actually, along with how fast they’ve gotten at drawing it out from the pockets of their coat.

They actually bring over the ‘ally’ they had mentioned before, an excitable young girl who reminds Byleth of Caspar when he was younger… or, well, just Caspar, really. Apparently she’d finally gotten permission from her parents to “visit her friend’s dojo” as long as she doesn’t injure herself, and Byleth has to endure ten minutes of awkward conversation with the girl’s parents, repeatedly reassuring them that no, this is not actually a dojo, and yes, your child will not be getting hurt, until the parents _finally_ leave, promising to return to their cottage-not-dojo before sunset.

When Byleth returns from the doorway, Ciel is already performing some fancy tricks with their knife like a circus act while the girl watches admiringly at the side, her eyes practically sparkling. “Teach me!” she pleads, clinging onto the hem of Jeritza’s shirt, which appears to be as high as she can reach. “Teach me that too!”

Jeritza doesn’t seem bothered by the girl going crazy at his feet, as opposed to the first few times the orphanage children had swarmed him. “Hm… you’re a little taller than Ciel. I think you should be able to hold a lance, at least.”

Ciel looks shocked and points at themselves indignantly. Jeritza snorts. “What about you? Do you not remember when you tried to lift one and you fell over at once?”

His response is sulky silence.

“Okay, okay! A lance! I don’t mind as long as I get to learn!” the girl cries. “I look forward to learning from you, Teacher!”

Jeritza pauses in place. “Teacher.” Then, slowly, “Teacher?”

The girl looks confused. “Yeah! You’re teaching me, so… Teacher, right?”

Byleth expertly hides his laugh behind his cough, but Jeritza shoots him a glare anyway like he hadn’t been fooled one bit. “Don’t call me that,” Jeritza grumbles, but grabs a training lance anyway. “Let us practice outside in the garden.”

“Yes, Teacher!”

They train for the entire afternoon — the girl’s energy is boundless, much unlike Ciel who tends to tire after too much rigorous exercise, and Byleth has to grudgingly admit Jeritza has an eye for identifying weapon aptitude. Ciel sulks at first, playing with their knife and trying to one-up the girl — whose name is Aveline, as she later introduces herself — every time she gets a trick with the lance right. Their petty jealousy is almost endearing. “You know,” Byleth tells them, half an hour in, “it isn’t as if you’ll be this small forever.” _Probably._ “Soon you should be able to train like that as well.”

Ciel pouts. “Too small…”

Byleth glances over at where Aveline is excitedly throwing the lance around. She’s taller than Ciel by at least a head, probably more. Is she unnaturally tall, or is Ciel just unnaturally small? “Jeritza is taller than me too,” Byleth says, “but we do fine together. I fill in the things he can’t do, and he does the same for me.”

Honestly, he has no idea what exactly he’s trying to say. That Jeritza is better at lances than he is, but Byleth works faith magic better? That Jeritza can reach the things off the top shelf while Byleth doesn’t have to hunch down as much when passing through low-ceilinged doorways? But it looks like Ciel understands the general meaning, because they look thoughtful for a while before hopping off the chair they’d been sulking on and running over to join Aveline’s side again, to the latter’s delight.

As promised, Aveline’s parents return right before the sky begins to melt from calm blue to warm orange — she’s already babbling about all the Cool New Things she learned from her teacher, who stands awkwardly at the side and elbows Byleth into speaking with them. “What? I talked earlier, it’s your turn,” Byleth hisses, hoping the parents don’t notice.

Jeritza scowls. “No.”

“Oh, don’t be difficult.”

“I’ll speak next time,” he offers. “You can be the teacher then.”

Byleth sighs. “That’s… Fine.” Why on earth did they both have terrible social skills? Even Ciel? He moves towards the parents, vaguely registering Jeritza moving around them in the house and picking up the equipment they’d used.

“Ah, there you are,” Aveline’s mother says, lifting her head in greeting. “Sir Eisner… or Hrym, isn’t it? Well, thank you very much for taking care of our little one. I’m afraid she’s going through that phase in her life where all her energy goes into things like these rather than studying.”

“Er… yes,” Byleth says, awkwardly. Children have phases like those? Will Ciel have one too? Judging by how they usually are, he highly doubts it. And did he give them his name earlier? He and Jeritza aren’t married ( _yet,_ a hopeful little voice whispers inside him), but have either of their surnames changed to match the other’s without their knowing…? “She’s a good student. Will she be returning?”

“Yeah! Duh!” Aveline answers. How is she still so lively? Hadn’t she exercised for how many hours straight? “Next time I’m gonna beat Teacher in a fight! So I definitely gotta come back!”

“I would certainly like to see that,” Byleth muses aloud.

Aveline’s father looks like he means to protest, but sighs and shakes his head before retrieving a fistful of something from his pocket. “Oh, very well. It looks like you’re doing fine, at least… anyhow, will this be enough, good sir? I’m afraid we aren’t aware of your rates.”

Byleth blinks, slowly. “Rates?”

And then he looks down at what the man is handing over to him: a small string pouch, slightly untied to reveal the shimmer of gold within.

“Ah,” Byleth says, “rates.” Belatedly he remembers what Aveline had mentioned during one of the short breaks they had taken earlier that day, that her parents are some of the more well-off merchants in the village and that they want her to follow in their footsteps. All that registers in his head is, of course, _well-off._

He has no idea how much is in here, but just taking the pouch in hand is enough for him to know that this is much more than what they earn for odd jobs and mercenary work. Would they pay him _every time_ they sent Aveline here? Surely not. Perhaps this is enough for one month or something. Yes, that sounds marginally more reasonable than—

“Then it shall be the same amount next week,” Aveline’s father says, making the decision for them. Byleth’s brain shuts down. “Thank you very much. Aveline, come along.”

“Bye, Teachers! See you on Monday, Ciel!”

Ciel waves a timid goodbye from their spot behind Byleth’s legs. As soon as Byleth closes the door to the small family’s backs, he turns around, leans against it, and stares down hard at the pouch, still sitting innocently atop his palm. It feels like his entire arm’s gone rigid just touching it.

Jeritza chooses that moment to return from the makeshift weapon storeroom. “Oh, have they gone? At last,” he murmurs, before his gaze flicks to the pouch. “What is that?”

“It’s… Well…” It occurs to Byleth now that he should probably have returned the gold, considering they had never been planning to charge the family for this at all, but everything had happened so fast that the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind until now. It may also have something to do with how he can’t stop thinking about exactly how much meat this would get him in the town market. “It’s gold.”

Jeritza pauses. “Gold.”

“Yes, that’s what I said.” Byleth swallows. He sounds remarkably calm considering his current internal state. “They… were under the impression this is our job. Or at least something they ought to pay us for.”

“We are not weapon instructors,” Jeritza says, but his usual stern tone wavers the slightest bit at the sparkle of gold in the pouch. “Just — well, out of curiosity. How much is in there?”

They wordlessly head over to the nearby dining table, Ciel tottering behind Byleth, and Byleth sets the pouch on the surface. He glances up at Jeritza, who glances down at him in return, and they stare at each other for a while, silently willing the other to open it with their own hands. Somehow it feels like actually touching the pouch now will mean they’ll be agreeing to something they shouldn’t—

“Hm,” Ciel says, a touch of impatience in their voice, and clambers up one of the chairs to tug the strings apart themselves.

Byleth makes a token effort to tug them away, but it’s too late — the gold spills onto the table, clanking and clattering loudly enough that for a delirious moment Byleth imagines it’s audible all the way to the next village and beyond, letting everyone there know about them. Jeritza’s eyes flash, or perhaps that’s just the light reflecting off the coins. “This is… quite… a lot.”

“A lot?” Byleth repeats, weakly. He coaxes Ciel to sit down and sweeps the coins up, counting them quickly even as his hands tremble just the slightest bit. It’s his turn to sit down heavily when he finishes. “Oh,” he says. “So it is a lot.”

Even after tucking Ciel in and returning to their room, Byleth still can’t stop thinking about it, and judging by how Jeritza keeps staring into space, neither can he. “What do you think we should do about it?” Byleth asks, once they’re both in bed, because he knows he would have needed to eventually.

Jeritza, running a hand down his hair, still damp from his earlier shower, pauses in his motions. “The gold?”

“What else?”

A thoughtful silence. Byleth wordlessly reaches over and untangles the knots in Jeritza’s hair, knowing full well they’re only going to get tangled up anyway in the morning. Finally, Jeritza shrugs, careful not to dislodge Byleth’s hands. “If they decided to pay us that amount, then I suppose it is the amount they believe is fair,” he says, very slowly. “Perhaps we can… treat this like another one of our jobs. That is all.”

Byleth sighs and rests his forehead against Jeritza’s back. “I thought you might say that. It would have been awkward to return the money a week later anyway.”

“But this means next week, you’ll be the teacher,” Jeritza repeats, as if Byleth could have forgotten their hastily-made compromise earlier. “Dealing with children is even more tiring than I remember it being back then, especially with one using up such boundless energy.”

“You must be getting old,” Byleth teases, unable to resist a smile when Jeritza turns to face him with a pout. “What? It’s true. You must be… 23 now, right?”

Jeritza gives him an odd look. “28.” Then, softer: “The five years.”

“O — Oh.” It feels like a slap in the face, and Byleth averts his gaze, fisting the sheets beneath him. He always forgets that had been a real period of time, where he had been presumed dead and everyone had slowly grown to live without him, to _forget_ about him, while for Byleth himself it had been but a blink of an eye. Jeritza hadn’t changed as much as the students, but then that may just be because Byleth hadn’t even been particularly close to the other man before the five years had happened; if Jeritza _had_ changed, he wouldn’t know. He hardly knew Jeritza for anything other than the Death Knight, back then.

“Byleth.” There’s a hand on his cheek, warm and callused and familiar, and Byleth finds himself leaning into it without even thinking. Jeritza stares at him, blinking pale blue eyes. “It is natural you would forget. Compared to everyone else, you…” He trails off, then shakes his head. “Well, I do not know how to describe it. But it was not your fault.”

“Ah… yes, I… that’s true,” Byleth mumbles. “Just, I… sometimes it feels like I missed out on so much.” Ferdinand’s hair had grown so much longer, Linhardt no longer cringed at blood as he used to, Bernadetta left her room more often — and he remembers when he had first seen Jeritza’s face without either his half-mask or the Death Knight one, how he’d stopped and stared and tried to place a name to his appearance, simultaneously familiar and foreign at once. He had visited Father in the monastery graveyard at some point, and had found it near-overgrown with weeds despite the sole gardener’s best efforts.

If he had just been more attentive… if he had just done something different that day…

There’s the tiniest pressure on his lips, and Byleth presses forward as way of acceptance, the distraction warm and welcome. Jeritza always kisses him so slowly and gently, as if fearing he might break, and Byleth still hasn’t been able to quite convince him to let loose a little more. “You are here now.”

“Mm…” Byleth blinks, meets his eyes and tries not to show how he had been perhaps a bit too distracted. “What?”

“You are here now.” Jeritza brushes a stray strand of hair out of his face, then kisses his cheek where his fingers had touched. “And the war is over. There is time to learn everything about everyone, as much as you like.”

Byleth looks at him, at his long unkempt hair and his sky-blue eyes, the line of his jaw and the jut of his cheekbones, the long column of his neck and the dip of his collarbones — and he sighs, wrapping his arms around Jeritza’s neck to pull him down as Byleth lies back on the bed. “Yes, I certainly do continue to learn more about you everyday,” he mumbles, loosening his hold to let Jeritza adjust himself more comfortably. “Back then, I never would have imagined you could be like this.”

“Understandably enough. Your only impression of me was not of me at all,” Jeritza says dryly. He tucks his face against where Byleth’s shoulder meets his neck and breathes deeply, his entire body relaxing. “Go to sleep,” he murmurs, and Byleth remembers just how tired the other man is from today. They haven’t had rigorous exercise like this since the war.

“Goodnight,” Byleth whispers, but Jeritza has already closed his eyes. Unthinkingly Byleth arranges the blanket to rest atop Jeritza’s shoulders, then sweeps his flyaway hair out of his face so he doesn’t wake up sneezing because of himself later in the night, but Byleth’s hand lingers on Jeritza’s chin.

They’ve touched each other, yes, but they’ve never gone any further than that — clumsy hands, fevered skin on skin, heat scorching as dragon fire. But maybe… surely Jeritza isn’t satisfied with just that? Maybe at first, but until now? Byleth’s hand drifts a little lower, blunt nails brushing against his throat, and his heart rattles around in his chest when Jeritza mumbles something inaudible and leans into his touch, the hair Byleth had tucked behind his ear earlier already dislodged.

Byleth doesn’t know if Jeritza is satisfied with just that. Maybe he is. But Byleth… he knows there’s more to this than just what they’ve been doing.

But he’ll think about that some other time, preferably when Jeritza is awake. He shuffles around in bed, presses one last kiss to Jeritza’s cheek, and makes themselves comfortable.

Jeritza does not wake up the next morning.

“Put that away, please,” Byleth mutters, cracking one sleep-crusted eye open, though he doesn’t need to see to know it’s the Scythe of Sariel leveled over his neck. The Death Knight stares him down, expressionless and motionless. “Really, must we do this each time? Do you never tire of it?”

“I do not trust you.”

It isn’t Jeritza, but the words sting just slightly all the same. Without the mask and armor, the Death Knight’s voice remains the same as Jeritza’s, if even lower and darker than usual, and if Byleth isn’t already used to picking out the nuances in their differing behaviors, it makes him frown still. “Even after all this time?” He sits up in bed, pushing the blade away, and to his mild surprise the Death Knight acquiesces and draws back.

“I trust no one in this world. You are no different.” The Death Knight stares at him, and Byleth is briefly reminded of one of the previous times he had looked at him like that — when Byleth had been fresh from the shower and dressed in only a towel, and for once the Death Knight had done nothing to attack him, only… well, he had done _something,_ he had stepped closer and dragged his fingertips down the side of Byleth’s arm, but…

At the time Byleth had no idea what was happening, and only after Jeritza returned did it occur to him that the moment — for it _had_ been nothing but the shortest of moments, no matter how long it had felt to him — might not have been entirely innocent. And yet this man has the audacity to say he doesn’t trust Byleth, and that he is no different to him from the rest of the world? It almost makes Byleth laugh.

He shakes the memory away; it would do him little good to be thinking things like this now. “Well, do whatever you like, then,” Byleth says, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed and stretching lazily. He’s a little bitter he hadn’t been able to wake up next to Jeritza and burrow in his warmth like always, but he supposes he can’t have everything. “Actually, it would be nice if you could go out to the forest and hunt some animals down or something for dinner.”

The Death Knight stares at him, and though his typical intensity is still present, it’s laced with a touch of confusion. “Excuse me?”

“What is it?” Byleth yawns.

“Am I a joke to you? I take orders from no one.”

“Yes, you did. From Edelgard, remember? Anyway, I’m not ordering you around. Like I said, do whatever you like. But I have no time to spar with you now.” Byleth looks outside the window; the sun is at just the right angle. At least the Death Knight respects his sleep schedule. “I have to take Ciel to school.”

Another long, intense, and confused stare. “Ci… el.”

“Yes.” Byleth heads into the bathroom.

“Ciel.”

Byleth washes his toothbrush. “Yes.”

“Who is that.”

Byleth jabs the toothbrush in his mouth and just gives the Death Knight a bland look that tells him, _Find out for yourself._ He knows for a fact that the Death Knight would never harm anyone he doesn’t perceive as a threat — other than Byleth, unfortunately — and he highly doubts a six-year-old child is going to be threatening the Death Knight anytime soon.

After another few seconds of silence, where the Death Knight is clearly waiting for Byleth to answer his question properly, the Death Knight huffs and turns on his heel to exit the room. He may have looked more dangerous in the armor, Byleth thinks, considering right now he can’t take the other man seriously when he’s still in Jeritza’s pajamas.

Ciel is at the dining table when Byleth joins them; they’re engaged in what appears to be a staring contest with the Death Knight, who looks extremely unnerved at the sight of a child in his territory. After several long seconds Byleth spends preparing breakfast, Ciel says, “Hi.”

The Death Knight takes a step back. He’s still holding onto his scythe, but it looks like he’s completely forgotten about it. “You… Who are you?”

“We’ve met,” Ciel says, their voice more curious than frightened. Byleth puzzles over when they had met, exactly, then remembers that time in the orphanage: a pair of parents had gotten in an argument with Mercedes, and Ciel had watched the Death Knight nearly strangle the man to death before they’d convinced him to stop. They had been terrified, back then, but now it looks like they’re saying hello to a past acquaintance… which, Byleth supposes, is exactly what is happening. “Don’t remember me?”

“No?” It’s the first time Byleth’s heard the Death Knight sound unsure, and it really shouldn’t amuse him as much as it does. “Forget this,” he grumbles, turning to glare at Byleth as if this is all his fault. “I am going. Do not look for me.”

“Sure,” Byleth says. He had been expecting more of a fight, literally, so this peaceful resolution is a pleasant surprise. “Be back by sundown.”

When the Death Knight leaves, Ciel says nothing, though they watch him exit and stare at the door for a short while. It’s only at the school gates that Ciel asks, glancing around as if cautious of eavesdroppers, “Where’s Jeri?”

Byleth mulls on that for a moment. He’s never known what happens to Jeritza, exactly, whenever the Death Knight comes out, though it at least seems like they share some important memories, muddled though they may be. “Asleep, I suppose,” Byleth eventually says. “He’s not hurt, I think, just… it might be a while before he comes back. But he will. So don’t worry too much.”

Ciel nods, worrying on their lower lip. Byleth wants to dissuade them of the action before it becomes a habit, but he has a feeling convincing them is a lost cause. “Then… what should I call…”

“Him?” Byleth finishes, when Ciel trails off. At their nod, he weighs his options — just _the Death Knight_ certainly isn’t plausible, not when Ciel barely speaks more than a few words at a time still and it really doesn’t fit the Death Knight outside of his actual, knightly armor. “Are you afraid of him?” he asks.

Ciel shrugs. “Before.”

They offer no further explanation. Had they thought the experience over afterwards and come to their own conclusion about how to feel about it? Byleth finds himself thinking, _ah, what a smart child,_ before reining the thoughts back. Normal children probably don’t even have to do things like decide how they feel about their guardian having a split personality.

“Then you can call him whatever you like,” Byleth says. “Or not at all. He doesn’t respond to any real names, as far as I know.” _Death Knight_ is just a moniker that had sprung up during his time at the monastery, if Byleth remembers correctly. Had Edelgard — the Flame Emperor, at the time — called him anything concrete? “Anyway, go on now. Jeritza should be back when you get home.”

Ciel smiles — just a little bit, but it’s easily the most precious thing Byleth’s ever seen in his life. “Bye.”

Byleth isn’t used to being without Jeritza for too long — they split up chores and such, of course, and sometimes Byleth spends an hour or two on his own tending to their overgrown garden or taking care of their purchases in the market, but he had always worked under the impression that Jeritza would be back home waiting for him, whether a long walk or a few steps away. Now he cleans the house, feeds the cats, and arranges the food in their cabinets with no idea when Jeritza — or the Death Knight, for that matter — will be coming home.

He sighs. Right. He may as well go and run some errands rather than sit at home twiddling his thumbs and worrying about someone who can take perfectly good care of himself.

The village market is as busy as ever. Byleth buys what they need, picking up some ingredients they’ve been running out of, and makes a promise to the vendors he’s friendly with that he’ll return soon to sell freshly-caught fish next time. “Really, Byleth, my store only did as well as it did a month back because of all the high-quality fish you got me,” the owner of the village’s largest general store says, jabbing a finger at him while he absently browses a variety of fishing floats. “And you’re a real riot with troublesome customers! I still remember how you flipped off that rude noble…”

“Oh, him,” Byleth says, smiling slightly. He remembers that too — the noble had been complaining about the low quality of the ‘poor’ village’s products and Byleth, having endured his ranting for the past ten minutes, had very slowly and deliberately made a show of gripping his sword handle. The noble had wisely made himself scarce afterwards. “I really do plan to return soon. I’ve been busy recently.”

“With your new kid, eh?” The storekeeper grins. “I get that. My sister never has time to help me out anymore after she gave birth too. Say, I’ll be nice since I know you gave me a discount on the fish back then — I’ll let you have something free of charge.”

“What? I can’t possibly—”

“Come on, anything! Just _one_ thing, mind you, I don’t have plans on going bankrupt anytime soon.”

“Hm… if you insist, then who am I to turn you down,” Byleth murmurs. He scans the selection around him but finds nothing of much interest — he prefers using live bait to fishing floats anyhow, although Ciel seems to like playing with the latter, and after all the other stalls he’d visited before this, he’s in no real need of anything.

His thoughts drift back to what he had been thinking of last night. Byleth wanders over to the back of the store, then holds out a small, innocuous thing. “Can I get this one, then?”

Even after returning home, arranging all his purchases, and accidentally dozing off on the couch afterwards, the Death Knight still hasn’t returned and he still has a few hours before he has to go pick Ciel up. Byleth spares his decision a few seconds of thought, more out of courtesy than anything, then grabs a spare sword (they really have to reconsider just leaving weapons lying around the house where a small child can accidentally trip on) and heads for the forest.

Finding the Death Knight isn’t hard, as Byleth only needs to follow the trail of destruction left in his wake: blood splatters, mostly, along with snapped twigs and branches and faded footsteps. He first sees the shock of pale blonde hair among the greenery, and watches behind a tree for a while as the Death Knight, standing over a dead deer, flicks blood off his scythe.

“You are terrible at hiding,” the Death Knight says, not bothering to turn and face Byleth. “Come out. I have waited long enough.”

Byleth sighs. “And I have indulged you long enough. Frankly I’m surprised you didn’t attack me the moment you woke up. Why bother with this? Do you want me dead so badly?”

Now the Death Knight chooses to look at him, and somehow it hurts more than usual to see Jeritza’s face, devoid of the warmth and light and emotion Byleth has grown so used to. “I seek nothing else but to sate my bloodlust,” he says, lowly. Byleth cannot help but wonder how others might react if he said that to them. “Nothing more. Now draw your sword and stand before me.”

“J—” Byleth cuts himself off. “Death Knight. Is that really your name?”

The Death Knight pauses. “What.”

“Surely there is something else we can call you. I refuse to refer to you as simply the Death Knight, especially when you are stripped of your armor.” Byleth stares him down, mentally willing the Death Knight to simultaneously stay where he is and to come closer. “I know you have been coming around less and less. Is it Jeritza suppressing you, or do you simply choose to remain hidden away? I do not know. But if you do insist on being here still, then you will have to adjust. Starting with a proper name.”

“That child did fine without a name for a while.”

They’re the last words Byleth had been expecting to hear from him, and he flounders for a response for a while before eventually managing, “You… know about Ciel after all?”

“Bits and pieces,” the Death Knight grunts, turning away once more. He nudges the deer corpse with his shoe, and Byleth vaguely notes to later take that home for dinner. “I usually remember nothing from my other life. But apparently _he_ found the child important enough that even I know who they are, albeit not by name at first.” He pauses. “Ridiculous.”

Irritation laces itself in Byleth’s voice. “What is? To grow attached to your own child?”

“Attachments, relationships — they are all the same. What do you gain from them other than another burden to be constantly aware of?” The Death Knight scowls and turns away completely, leaving Byleth to face his back. “The fool who birthed me did so because he was attached. See what became of him now.”

“But — that—”

But the Death Knight has already gone, disappearing further into the woods without another word or glance. Byleth exhales heavily, unclenching his fists and blinking down at the crescent-moon marks on his palm. Will anyone’s words ever be able to reach that man? He hadn’t even been able to get a concrete name out of him, but at the same time he doesn’t want to just keep referring to him as the Death Knight, not when Byleth knows there has to be a better way to approach all this. And how long is the Death Knight going to stay as the Death Knight anyway? Until he clears the entire forest of all life?

Byleth wants to hit something. He turns around and trudges back home instead, feeling like he had been defeated despite never having even drawn his weapon.

The day only gets worse when, later that afternoon, Byleth leaves to fetch Ciel and finds them not waiting by the school gates as usual but bumping into them halfway along the path, nearly tripping over the much smaller child. “Ciel? What are you — did you run out on your own?” Byleth realizes, dropping down to his knees to steady the stumbling Ciel. “Why didn’t you wait for me? Are you—”

And then he gets a good look at their face and thinks, _oh, this is bad,_ because Ciel’s eyes are rimmed red and their cheeks wet with tears.

“Oh,” Byleth says, stupidly; and then, a little more panicked, “ _Oh._ Ciel, what’s — what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Injured?” He lets them lean on one of his arms while readying a diagnostic spell with his other hand, the one Linhardt had taught him so long ago, but the magic tells him of no injuries on Ciel’s person.

Ciel shakes their head, mussed hair flying every which way and obscuring their face. They open their mouth, probably to speak, before shutting their mouth again so quickly Byleth hears the faint sound of their teeth clacking, then shakes their head harder.

“You don’t want to talk about it,” Byleth guesses. Ciel nods, avoiding his eyes and staring at the ground, their shoulders trembling dangerously like they might burst into tears once more. “But… promise me you aren’t hurt anywhere?” Magic wouldn’t lie, but then it isn’t as if Byleth’s faith magic is the best either. If he had missed anything, if Ciel had been hurt by someone somewhere—

Ciel shakes their head again. They’re wearing their favorite winter coat, the one that Byleth has to struggle to get off their person to wash for the laundry, and so it’s difficult to discern any wounds, but it doesn’t look like they’re lying. With a sigh, Byleth relents and stands up, letting Ciel cling to their hand instead. “Alright,” he says, softly, “but — next time, please don’t run out on your own. Even if you have your knife, it’s still dangerous to be by yourself.”

Ciel gives him a dispassionate shrug. There won’t be any getting through to them now, that is for sure — Byleth mentally files this away to talk to them about later, when they’re feeling better. It would be nice to have Jeritza around for this, Byleth wistfully thinks; not like he’s any better at consoling crying children, but at least they’d be together.

At home, Ciel doesn’t follow Byleth into the house but runs off into the garden instead, flopping onto a rock usually occupied by stray cats sunning themselves. “Will you be staying out here for a bit?” Byleth asks, gently.

A sullen nod.

Byleth has no idea what to say here, but he knows that he prefers solitude over company when he feels terrible — he had locked himself in his room for the better part of a week after Father’s death, with the other professors taking over his classes, and he hadn’t been able to speak with anyone after Sothis’ disappearance either. He truly wonders why it is Ciel seems to take after them so much despite only having been around them for a few short months. “Alright,” he concedes, his heart lightening when Ciel turns to face him, still unsmiling but looking relieved. “Just come back before dark. Be safe.”

Byleth tries to give them some privacy, he really does, but he checks in on them from the window overlooking the garden every now and then anyway, in between preparing dinner and other chores. It doesn’t look like Ciel is moving much, sitting there in silence with their knees drawn up to their chest, the cats gathering around them and cuddling up to their feet. Byleth hopes that makes them feel better, because it doesn’t get much better than cuddling with a bunch of cats, but curiosity about what happened to Ciel itches at him for what feels like hours.

Just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, Byleth steps out, looking at the rock. Ciel is still there, looking thankfully unhurt and with a calico cat on their lap. “Ciel,” he calls, “come in, it’s late—”

The rest of his words die on his tongue. The Death Knight is standing before them, staring down at Ciel, his scythe still dripping with blood and staining the grass beneath it.

Byleth has no idea what to do. Yes, the Death Knight had never attacked innocent civilians, much less children, but their conversation earlier had clearly riled the other man up, and even after hours in the forest it doesn’t look like he’s finished with fighting; if Byleth had sparred with him, satiated his need for violence, perhaps it would be Jeritza there instead, but he had been a fool who thought the Death Knight could be satisfied with hunting alone. He had been born to slaughter Jeritza’s father and the rest of his former House — would Ciel be…?

There are no weapons in easy reach outside of his own bare hands. Byleth takes a deep breath and steps forward; he had never been any good at brawling, had no natural affinity for it like Caspar, but if he needs to wrestle the Death Knight to the ground to save Ciel from himself, then so be it—

“Hurt…” Ciel blinks, slowly. Their eyes are still tinged with red, but they no longer look quite as miserable as earlier. “You’re hurt.”

The reply is immediate. “Speak another word and you die.”

Ciel looks unimpressed. “Hmm,” they say, before standing up from the rock, the calico cat hopping up to rest on their shoulders instead. They reach out, not faltering even when the Death Knight’s arm moves quicker than Byleth’s eyes can follow and positions the scythe’s edge under Ciel’s chin, and, of all things, casts a Heal spell.

The Death Knight freezes in place, but his shoulders visibly relax all the same as the magic focuses on a deep cut along his leg before spreading throughout the rest of his body, easing the tension and exertion from hunting. “What… are you doing,” he grinds out through gritted teeth. “Poison? Are you poisoning me? You little…”

“S’ magic,” Ciel mutters, sounding, to Byleth’s immense amazement, _annoyed._ “Don’t be noisy.”

“ _Noisy._ ”

“Talking too much.”

“You—” The Death Knight growls. “What is the matter with you? I am not hurt—”

“Not anymore,” Ciel huffs.

“—and smart children hardly go around healing complete strangers.”

“Then ‘m not smart.” Ciel sits back down on the rock, the cat returning to its original position. Byleth wonders if it’s Ciel’s favorite.

The Death Knight looks at a loss for words, and Byleth cannot blame him considering he is, too. Ciel hasn’t so much as glanced at the bloody scythe, nor do they seem to care about the Death Knight’s threats against their life. Now all they’re doing is sitting and stroking the cat’s back, staring out into space at the dirt path beyond the garden fence. Above them, the sky is streaked with pinks and oranges, the sun over halfway down the horizon already.

“You,” the Death Knight says again, but he doesn’t get any further than that before the faint sound of rapid footsteps comes from around the corner. He whirls in place, scythe at the ready, then rolls his eyes and turns away when it’s only a group of children from the village running along the path. “Are you not afraid of me?” he asks.

Ciel shakes their head.

“But you were, once.”

“Once,” they echo. Their gaze slides over to the group of children, who’ve stopped just outside the garden and are looking curiously over at the unusual-looking pair. “Not anymore.”

“But why?” the Death Knight demands, his grip on the scythe tightening. “I could kill you where you stand — sit. And yet—”

“Hey, it’s the orphan!” one of the children crow, as if they’d just realized who Ciel is. Ciel flinches so hard they nearly tumble off the rock. “Is that your fake dad? Where’s your real one?”

“Why’s the garden so ugly?” someone else chimes in, sounding genuinely confused.

And now the look on Ciel’s face is familiar again — the distraught expression they had worn earlier when they had run into Byleth outside the school, clutching onto his pants leg like hiding behind him would protect them from anything. They hadn’t been injured, Byleth realizes, but they had been _hurt,_ with a wound far deeper and far worse than any Heal spell can hope to fix.

He starts out of the doorway, surprising both the Death Knight and Ciel. “Get out of here,” Byleth says, coldly. It’s been a while since he’s had to channel the supposed Ashen Demon persona everyone used to fear him for.

But dressed in worn clothes and a stained apron, he supposes he must not be as intimidating as he used to be in all-black armor, because the children only roll their eyes. Even when the Death Knight glares at them, one of the kids crosses their arms over their chest and declares, “It’s true anyway! Ciel doesn’t look anything like either of you. My ma says it’s weird. Can’t trust what you just pick up off the street an’ all.”

“Is that so?” The Death Knight brandishes his bloodstained scythe, and the children all jump back with screams and shrieks. Byleth belatedly realizes the blade of his weapon, resting against the grass, had been hidden from the outside by the hedges and the garden fence. “Would you like to repeat those words one more time and see where that takes you?”

The children back away rapidly, and then, with a cry of, “M… Monster! Run!” they turn tail and speed down the path, disappearing towards the direction of the village near-immediately.

The Death Knight glares at their retreating backs a while longer, then lowers his scythe and turns back to Ciel, who’s curled up even further in on themselves. “I suspect they will not be bothering you for now. But you will need to learn to defend yourself next time, foolish child.” When no reply comes right away, the Death Knight frowns and steps closer. “Are you listening to me?”

Ciel sniffs, then lifts their head to look up at the Death Knight. “There,” they mumble. “That’s why ‘m not scared of you.”

“…What?”

“Protect…” Ciel trails off, as if unsure how to properly use the word, before sliding off the rock and heading over to Byleth’s side, calico cat climbing up onto their head. “You protect friends.” A pause, and then, after a glance up at (a very confused) Byleth, they add, “Family.”

_…Oh._

Now Byleth just feels like an idiot. The Death Knight hadn’t been born to kill House Bartels — he had been born out of a desire to _protect_ Mercedes. And when Ciel had first seen the Death Knight, back at the orphanage, it had been because he had perceived the nobles as a threat against Mercedes as well. True, he had been more like a weapon for war under Edelgard’s command during the war, and Byleth had needed extreme medical attention after their battles more than once, but ever since the war had ended, he’s never been under any real danger from the other man. He had thought it pure luck that their spars would always end before injuries became too severe, but perhaps it had been something else at work all along.

“So it was like that,” Byleth murmurs, more to himself than anything. The Death Knight looks at him sharply, as if asking him for an explanation. “I — what? They came to that conclusion on their own,” Byleth says, looking down at Ciel. Their gaze is still downcast, and Byleth feels a pang of guilt; he shouldn’t be arguing with the Death Knight right now when there are more important matters to cover. “Never mind. Ciel, come inside now. It’s getting late.”

Ciel looks like they might try to argue, but give up and shrug, following Byleth into the house. Byleth pauses at the doorway, looking over his shoulder to see the Death Knight still standing, unmoving, and staring at the rock Ciel had been sitting on.

“You, too,” Byleth calls, softly. The Death Knight’s head snaps up to look at him. “Come in already.”

“I…”

Byleth’s never heard the Death Knight sound so — _unsure,_ and it makes him more human, somehow, not just a part of Jeritza but someone else entirely. Ciel stops beside Byleth, looking at the both of them curiously, but says nothing. Then the Death Knight turns away with a shake of his head. “You invite me into your house? I will trail blood everywhere.”

“Home,” Byleth corrects. “Our home.”

Is the word unfamiliar to the Death Knight’s ears? Byleth doubts he had ever considered anywhere his _home,_ only another place to inhabit and live in — in the Imperial Palace for as long as Edelgard let him, or in the monastery for as long as he remained a fencing instructor, but never somewhere at home.

A moment passes, then two. When the Death Knight turns to face him once more, it’s Jeritza staring back at him, warmth returning to those blue eyes. He blinks. “Oh. Hello. It… Is it night already?”

“Jeri!” Ciel waves, their entire countenance lighting up.

Jeritza nods down at them, then frowns at his bloody scythe. “Was I out the whole day? I feel unreasonably tired.”

Byleth sighs in relief. He’s not sure what the Death Knight had been planning to do, and Byleth hadn’t been looking forward to chasing the man down if he tried running off into the woods again. “Welcome home,” he says, waiting for Jeritza to come closer before tugging him down and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, picking a stray leaf out of his hair afterwards. “And yes, you were. Go take a shower.”

Jeritza wrinkles his nose. “Do I smell?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Jeritza kisses him again anyway. “I feel like I have missed you an incredible amount,” he sighs against Byleth’s mouth. “Why did you not bring me back sooner?”

Byleth smiles softly. “I knew you’d come around.”

Ciel had cheered up slightly at Jeritza’s return, but it’s hard to miss the despondence on their person when the three of them are at the dining table together, and the corners of their eyes and the tip of their nose are still tinged with red. Byleth lets the quiet, more tense than comfortable tonight, linger for a short while before clearing his throat. “Ciel? Can I… ask about what happened earlier?”

“Mm,” Ciel mumbles, picking at their food. They give Byleth an indiscernible look, and then Jeritza, and then stares back down at their plate. “You know.”

Byleth and Jeritza share a glance — Jeritza hadn’t been there when Ciel had run out of school on their own, but he probably picked up on the atmosphere earlier. “Maybe, but I’d still like to hear it from you,” Byleth eventually says. “You can tell us anytime you want, though.”

More silence. Then, after what feels like an eternity of Byleth staring at his food and pretending to not be interested at all, Ciel sighs. It really isn’t the sort of sigh a six-year-old should be making. “Made fun of my knife,” they grumble. Now they sound more annoyed than sad. “Said I threatened Byle and Jeri into picking me.”

“Picking…?”

“From the others. At Mercie’s.”

“Oh. Like picking a child,” Jeritza muses. “You make it sound like we select from a catalogue of children. And that it was us who chose you, rather than you who chose us…”

Ciel shakes their head like a wet dog. “‘M mad,” they say, which would be a bit more believable if they didn’t sound incredibly sulky. “I was sad at first but now ‘m mad. ‘M gonna be like Jeri 2 and scare them off tomorrow.”

Byleth chokes on his drink. “Jeri… two?”

Ciel points at Jeritza. “Jeri 1.” Then they narrow their eyes in what Byleth realizes is an admirably accurate imitation of the Death Knight. They even lower their voice when they say, “Jeri 2.”

Jeritza looks frozen in place, his expression stricken. Byleth has to set his glass of water down before he spills it all over himself. “Jeri 2,” he whispers to himself in awe. Will Ciel call the Death Knight that to his face the next time he comes around? Byleth suddenly can’t wait. “Well, that… er… um…” What had they even been talking about before this? His mind is now entirely preoccupied with thoughts of Jeri 2 and the Death Knight’s reaction to it.

“The children,” Jeritza says, having recovered by massaging his temple. “You… Wait, they _attacked_ you?”

Ciel ponders that for a moment, then nods.

Jeritza stands up so quickly his chair clatters to the floor. Byleth yanks him back down before he can start towards the weapons room. “ _No,_ not like that,” Byleth hisses. “You heard them explain it not five minutes ago. Verbal… attack, something like that.” The proper term is _bullying,_ if he remembers correctly. Having never been to school himself, perhaps the only time he had encountered anything close to that was when the other mercenaries would tease him for being short all the way until his late growth spurt…

Jeritza frowns but reluctantly rights his chair and sits down again. “Hmph. Very well. If they hurt you, Ciel, that gives you all the right to hurt them back.”

The right thing to do would probably be to dissuade Ciel before they get themselves expelled from school, but Byleth waves the thought away and nods. “I was thinking the same. They started it, after all. But…” He pauses, giving Ciel a closer look — they’re exceptional with their knife now, he knows, but perhaps starting an actual physical fight wouldn’t be the smart way to go about it.

Ciel blinks up at him, then retrieves their knife from their coat. “Stab?” they suggest.

“What? No!” Jeritza shakes his head. Byleth feels relieved for all of one second before Jeritza takes the knife and makes a very familiar motion with it. “Slice.”

“ _No._ ” Byleth grabs the knife and keeps it out of Ciel’s reach despite their grabby hands. “I propose an alternative strategy to approach this battle with. No stabbing or slicing, but there will be a knife involved,” he adds, for Ciel’s benefit; they huff at first, but seem mollified by the promise of the knife all the same. Byleth vaguely wonders just what sorts of values they are leaving upon such an impressionable child.

Jeritza, however, looks unconvinced. “What better strategy is there than to attack headfirst?”

“Did you ever wonder why you always lost to me back before the war?”

Jeritza’s gaze flicks over to the fork next to his plate as if assessing a new lance. “Anyway,” Byleth hurries to speak, “just listen. Sometimes rushing along recklessly is not always the best course of action, and it would do you well to first carefully assess your choices before deciding on a battle plan anyway.”

“You are starting to sound like Hubert,” Jeritza sighs, but he looks away from the fork and back to Byleth anyway. “Well, go on, then.”

Byleth smiles. “Ciel, you saw the Death — er, Jeri 2 earlier, didn’t you?”

It takes longer than usual to coax Ciel into bed once they fully understand the battle plan Byleth lays out for them, but eventually they grow weary and fall dead asleep in a few minutes. Jeritza is uncharacteristically quiet — well, quieter than usual — in their bedroom, and frowns at Byleth once he gets out of the shower. “I have a question.”

“Yes?” Jeritza usually doesn’t even need to ask (or state).

“When the Death Knight… takes over, I usually return to myself after an hour or so, yes?” Jeritza says. Byleth sits beside him on the edge of the bed, nodding in response. “Mostly because you tire him enough through spars that he sleeps. But today, you…”

“Oh.” Byleth shakes his head. “Yes, well… I thought — how can we hope for anything to change if we do the same thing over and over again? He tired himself out in the end, at least. And he didn’t try to kill me…” Wait, there had been the scythe in the morning. “Well, he didn’t _injure_ me, at least. I’d say it’s an improvement.”

Jeritza looks skeptical. “Is that so? Do you wish to live with him now or something?”

“That — what? What are you—” It occurs to Byleth that the strange emotion he catches in Jeritza’s tone is none other than _jealousy,_ and he barely manages to suppress the laugh that very nearly escapes him. “Jeritza! You know that is not what I want. I simply thought that if he insists on staying a part of you, then it should be expected that we learn to work with him as well.”

Jeritza sighs, but he looks less ruffled than earlier. “Fine. As long as he does not harm Ciel, I… suppose I will simply have to live with it. Until I find a reliable way to keep him down.”

“Only Ciel,” Byleth observes. “Not me?”

“Someone needs to put you in your place every once in a while.”

Byleth smiles. “I can’t disagree. Will you do the honors and _put me in place_ tonight, then?”

Jeritza’s kisses are, more often than not, soft and sweet and sometimes still _shy,_ to Byleth’s immense fondness, but tonight he foregoes that and practically attacks Byleth’s lips, pushing him to lie flat against the bed; Byleth makes an undignified sound of surprise but lets himself fall, shivering at the strength behind Jeritza’s grip on his shoulders. Has it been a while since they’d done this? He can’t remember, but judging by how every part of his body suddenly feels a hundred times more sensitive than usual, then maybe they do deserve a bit of this.

Byleth places a shaky hand over his mouth when Jeritza begins to work his way down his throat, littering sharp, biting kisses all over the skin there, leaving stinging marks Byleth knows he will be seeing again the next morning. “Stay still,” Jeritza murmurs, when Byleth makes to pull him up. “I intend on destroying you.”

“D… Destroying…”

“Metaphorically, obviously,” Jeritza clarifies, as if _that_ was what had made Byleth go at a loss for words. “Unless you are interested in sparring while naked?” He pulls Byleth’s shirt over his head as if for emphasis, and Byleth dutifully raises his arms to make things easier.

Byleth smiles. “No, not particularly. But—” He sighs, long and low, when Jeritza’s hands come up to tease his nipples, already beginning to grow stiff from the chill. “But I… can’t let you do all the work…”

“I want to, so will you stop talking already?” Jeritza says, right before he lowers his head and flicks his tongue over Byleth’s chest. Byleth makes a distressed noise and throws one of his arms over his face, trembling all over and just barely managing to suppress the rest of the sounds threatening to escape him as Jeritza’s tongue swirls over one of his nipples while his hand twists and tweaks the other.

Just this bit of foreplay has him squirming in place already, his sleep shorts growing tighter by the second. Jeritza evidently notices, because after one final scrape of his teeth against the sensitive skin, he lifts his head, absently licking his lips, and moves his hand further down until Byleth is gasping and jerking his hips into Jeritza’s palm, slapping a hand over his mouth once more. “Y… Yes, please,” he breathes, blinking blearily down at Jeritza.

Jeritza palms his erection through the fabric, apparently uncaring of how horribly _inadequate_ it feels. “You know,” he says, almost conversationally, “I am rather torn between hearing your voice and keeping you quiet, for Ciel’s sake.”

“They won’t wake up,” Byleth says. “Probably.”

“Ah, so you want to be loud as well, is that so.”

“That’s — you know what I mean!”

Jeritza laughs under his breath, and it’s a damn beautiful thing, enough to give Byleth pause just to admire how the man he loves looks like this. “Very well,” he agrees, although Byleth is so dazed he doesn’t even entirely register what exactly Jeritza is agreeing to until he pulls Byleth’s shorts down.

It’s almost embarrassing how, well, _desperate_ he must look, with his cock already hard against his thigh and leaking small beads of white when Jeritza takes him in hand once more, this time without any clothes in the way. Byleth whimpers, doing his best to keep his voice low anyway, as Jeritza begins to stroke — slowly, at first, letting the pleasure mount and mount until Byleth’s entire body begins to ache from the effort it takes to stay still. “Please,” he whispers, the bed sheets twisting under his fists. “I need… Jeritza…”

Jeritza murmurs something in acknowledgement, and then without warning lets go of Byleth completely; Byleth blinks in shock, already weighing his options to see if throwing a tantrum is worth it, when Jeritza lowers his _head_ and slides his lips against Byleth’s cock, staring up at him with those blue eyes, the usual pale shade darkened from lust.

The sight alone has Byleth’s head spinning. “O… Oh,” he says, stupidly.

“Don’t want it?” Jeritza asks

He sounds perfectly serious, but the glimmer in his eyes gives him away, and Byleth swats his arm. “You know full well I do,” he huffs, though he can’t quite keep his own smile off his face. “But are you sure?”

“Must you ask that every time I do this?” Jeritza sighs. He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead choosing to return to swiping his tongue over the head of Byleth’s cock; Byleth groans into his fist, thighs trembling and legs quivering as Jeritza mouths at his shaft, drags his lips down his length, tongues further down at his balls. Pre-cum dribbles messily down his cock, and Jeritza licks that up as well, white smearing across his bottom lip; if Byleth were still in a stable state of mind, he would probably have absolutely lost it at just that.

Belatedly Byleth remembers Jeritza had asked a question, and though it takes an incredible effort just to string words coherently together, Byleth somehow manages. “It… It can’t be enjoyable for you,” he gasps out. “I-If this is it.”

“You underestimate how I feel when I see you like this, then.” Jeritza rises slightly, shifting to make himself more comfortable on the bed. He places one strong hand atop Byleth’s thigh as if to remind him to stay still, and the strength behind the action has Byleth melting into the sheets like jelly. “Trust me,” he says, and then finally, _finally,_ he takes Byleth in his mouth, lips wrapping around the head of his cock.

Byleth moans, only remembering to quiet himself at the last second as he fumbles blindly for a fistful of Jeritza’s hair, tugging at the tangled strands; Jeritza’s eyes flutter, growing even hazier, and he works his way further down Byleth’s cock until saliva trickles down his chin. “Jeritza — _Jeritza,_ ” Byleth gasps, squeezing his eyes shut, “I-I — ah, please, oh…”

He starts to move, slowly, just a bit, because he has a feeling that if he _doesn’t_ move he’s going to explode. Jeritza’s mouth is hot and wet and there is something so terribly addicting about seeing him like this, lips stretched around his cock, hands gently pushing Byleth’s thighs further apart and open — Byleth groans when he pushes deeper in Jeritza’s mouth, the tip brushing against the back of his throat, and the moan Jeritza lets out at that sends shock waves down Byleth’s spine. “I — I love you,” he breathes, tightening his grip on Jeritza’s hair, “I — Jeritza, I’m g-going to—”

Jeritza hums, and then Byleth cries out as he comes in his mouth, the heat that had been pooling in his gut releasing all at once — he has no idea what happens next, only he must blank out for a few seconds because when his senses return to him, Jeritza is licking cum off his lips and looking down at Byleth with what is unmistakably fondness in his expression. “T-That…” Byleth clears his throat. “I… Thank you…”

“You know you really need not thank me each time, too,” Jeritza sighs, moving to lie next to Byleth on the bed. But he shifts awkwardly as he does so, and Byleth doesn’t miss the tent in his own trousers that he hurriedly hides. “It has just been a while,” Jeritza says, as if trying to distract Byleth, “and I wanted to… hm. Well. Touch you is one way to put it.”

“But you’re…”

“Next time,” Jeritza promises. “I know you are tired.”

Byleth frowns. “I am not. And besides, I meant to speak with you about this anyway.” He drags himself closer to the bedside dresser, somehow managing to move his sore legs, and pulls something out. Jeritza’s eyes go comically wide when he lifts the small bottle of oil up to the light. “What do you think?”

Jeritza’s voice cracks. “What do I _think?_ ”

“Well, I assume you have a preference—”

“Are you sure?” Jeritza asks, sitting up sharply and staring down at Byleth. Byleth, for his part, blinks blankly — he hadn’t been expecting such an… incensed reaction. “You’re very sure. You’re extremely sure? I have heard that… it can hurt sometimes. For, ah, the person at the bottom. Not that I am implying it should be you—”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Byleth informs him.

“—but you being hurt is the last thing I want, and—” Jeritza pauses, as if only now did Byleth’s response register in his head. “I mean, well… that’s…”

“Have you thought about this a lot?” Byleth asks, realization lighting up like a candle in his head. The way Jeritza had suddenly jumped to ask a hundred different questions at once… does that mean he had been stewing on this for even longer than Byleth? He should have known, goodness. It wasn’t like the thought hadn’t crossed his mind only recently, because it’s certainly something he’s given thought to more than once, but for Jeritza to have been thinking of it for _this_ long… “Well, I have the… thing now. And you need not worry so much.”

Jeritza has the audacity to _pout,_ like that won’t just make Byleth want to kiss him. “And… if anything happens?”

Byleth stares up at him. “Just what exactly are you fearing may happen?”

“I… overheard… something in the market.”

“You seem to overhear quite a great number of things whenever you go out,” Byleth observes, a little unnerved. Just where in the village does Jeritza do his shopping anyway, for him to be overhearing people talking of their sex life in public?

Jeritza looks embarrassed. “I may have spoken to Sister once or twice about it as well.”

“… _Mercedes?_ ”

“She provides quite a bit of advice,” Jeritza says, as if this is completely normal and _Byleth_ is the odd one for being surprised. “I suppose she is knowledgeable in the topic, though I dare not ask how or why.” A pause. “Or with whom.”

The impact of this information feels like Byleth had just been knocked down by a stampeding pegasus. Mercedes? Giving Jeritza _sex advice?_ Alright, alright, surely it isn’t as strange as Byleth makes it out. The mercenaries used to exchange the same sort of conversation with one another back when they were all still together, and Byleth would inevitably hear something that had Father storming up to them and pulling them by their ears. He hadn’t given it thought, back then — he hadn’t given many things thought, really — but now he supposes that’s… normal for close friends.

But Mercedes? Where and when would she have…? No, Byleth can’t risk lingering on this any longer, else his head may explode. He shakes the thoughts away and meets Jeritza’s eyes once more. “Never mind that, then,” he says, willing his voice not to give away his bewilderment, and shakes the bottle around a bit. “Back to the matter at hand. What do you say?”

“I… I say yes, of course,” Jeritza says, and then before Byleth can even think of what to say next he hurries to add, “But if anything happens. If anything goes wrong—”

“Calm _down,_ ” Byleth laughs. Honestly, is this really the same man who had once voiced aloud his fantasies of killing or being killed by Byleth? The memory feels so long ago and yet so recent as well, and seeing how ridiculously different he is now, to worry so much for Byleth’s well-being over something like this, makes his heart feel ready to burst from love. “If anything goes wrong, we shall trust each other to stop and listen, yes?”

Jeritza nods, slowly, though his brows are still creased with concern. “This may perhaps be the one battle I would rather not rush into.”

“Perhaps because this isn’t a battle?”

“It isn’t?” Jeritza presses a kiss to his forehead, and Byleth momentarily forgets everything they had just said. “All my life I approached every new situation as a fight to win. But with you… I suppose there is a first for everything.”

Jeritza had probably been expecting things to turn out more slowly and awkwardly, but somehow with their combined, cobbled-together knowledge of how this works, they manage: Byleth remains lying down, slowly lifting his legs up until Jeritza touches his ankles and guides them to rest atop his shoulders. The position has him feeling thoroughly exposed and vulnerable, and he only gets more embarrassed when Jeritza stares at him like he’s seeing Byleth in a completely different light. “Um… this is a little…”

“You look nice,” Jeritza says, and Byleth decides whatever else he had meant to say doesn’t matter. “May I — I mean, would you like me to…” He gestures towards the bottle of oil sitting on the dresser, apparently unable to say it aloud.

Byleth hands it over, doing his best to keep himself calm when Jeritza pours nearly half the bottle onto his fingers; his neutral mask doesn’t work as well here, when his hands are shaking enough that he nearly spills the oil all over the sheets. Wait, yes, the sheets — if they get dirty, and Byleth has a very strong feeling they will get dirty, how are they going to clean them…? What might work on… stains of that nature?

His thoughts are abruptly derailed when he feels the cold press of a finger against his entrance. Jeritza is staring down at him, silently asking permission, and Byleth swallows — he wants this, he knows he does, and it isn’t as if this is wholly unfamiliar to him, but with _Jeritza,_ he can’t help but feel nervous all the same.

But then again, perhaps it’s also _because_ it’s Jeritza that it’s far easier for him to calm down. He breathes in, breathes out, nods.

For all his unsureness earlier, Jeritza clearly isn’t a stranger to this either, because the first breach of his finger already has Byleth throwing an arm over his face to hide whatever embarrassing expression he’s probably making — it feels _good,_ sinfully good, and most likely because Byleth hasn’t touched himself there in a while. “Oh,” Jeritza murmurs, so quietly Byleth barely hears him over the rush of blood in his ears, “you’re tight, Byleth—”

And — just _what_ is Byleth supposed to even say to that? _Of course?_ He tries to do as such, but when he opens his mouth all that leaves him is a very small, “More,” and by the way Jeritza’s eyes darken even further he supposes that might have been the better thing to say.

Jeritza’s fingers are long and thick — _much like a certain other part of him,_ some unwelcome voice in Byleth’s head says — and they stretch Byleth out so _well._ He adds a second digit once he manages to push his first finger in until the first joint, and there’s just the slightest bit of a burn that makes it feel all the better. He buries his face in the pillow beneath him, doing his best to breathe normally, in and out, like he’s done his whole life, but it’s so _hard_ when Jeritza inches his fingers in deeper, spreads them so tantalizingly slowly, opening him up and — Byleth gasps — adds a third digit, and Byleth doesn’t think he’s ever been this _wide_ before, when his fingers are thinner compared to Jeritza’s and don’t do half as good a job as this—

“Please,” he whines, hardly aware the voice he’s hearing is his. “Please, I — I’m ready, Jeritza, I c-can—”

His next words, whatever he may have wanted to say, morph into a heady moan instead when Jeritza pulls slightly out, leaving just his nails inside, then _pushes_ his fingers back in. Pre-cum jolts out of Byleth’s cock, trickling down his length, and he makes a choked noise when Jeritza repeats the action two more times before pausing. “Can you come just from this?” Jeritza whispers, and it almost sounds like a challenge.

It hasn’t even been ten minutes yet and Byleth’s already incoherent. His chest heaves with the weight of his struggling lungs. “I-I… I don’t…”

“Next time,” Jeritza promises, and just the words are enough to have Byleth’s cock twitching in interest once more. He pulls out — all the way, this time — and Byleth makes to protest, but goes silent when Jeritza tugs off his own sleepwear to reveal the sizeable bulge in his smallclothes.

“Wait,” Byleth blurts out, before Jeritza would have pulled those off too. He twists to lie on his stomach instead, trying not to feel too conscious of Jeritza’s gaze on his bare ass, and shifts forward until he’s eye-level with Jeritza’s still-clothed cock. He gives it a tentative lick through the fabric, taking some validation from Jeritza’s startled groan, then continues in earnest; even through the cloth, damp from sweat and pre-cum alike, the taste and shape of Jeritza’s cock is familiar on Byleth’s tongue. Already there are trembling hands tangling in his hair, and Byleth welcomes the mild sting from that, too.

He waits until Jeritza’s grip on his hair grows tight enough to actually hurt before finally doing away with his underwear; Jeritza is fully hard underneath, a thin stream of white leaking from the tip, and it’s habit by now for Byleth to lean forward and kiss it off. “Byleth,” Jeritza moans, lowly, his voice shaking in pleasure, and hearing his name in that tone has heat pooling in Byleth’s gut. He licks open-mouthed at Jeritza’s cock first then takes the head in his mouth; the weight is a familiar thing, too, and he closes his eyes as he inches his way further down.

Everything else blurs into nothing, leaving only the two of them on the bed. And then Jeritza groans and _thrusts_ into Byleth’s mouth, the tip of his cock brushing against the back of his throat, and the surprised moan that leaves him is beyond humiliating. “I — I’m sorry,” Jeritza stammers, staring down at him in shock. “I did not mean to — are you alright?”

Byleth is certainly _alright,_ physically speaking, but inside he is a complete mess, because — well, should he be worried that it felt that _good?_ He pulls off for a moment, and he doesn’t miss the flash of absolute (but rather comical) desolation on Jeritza’s face before saying, “Again.”

Jeritza blinks, the desolation turning into confusion. “Er…?”

“Do it again,” Byleth repeats, and sinks back down onto Jeritza’s cock. Jeritza jolts again, this time more out of surprise than anything, but the effect is the same: his cock goes deeper into Byleth’s mouth this time, nearly down his throat, and he moans around his mouthful, vision blurring over with tears. His jaw is beginning to ache and he knows his throat is going to be a wreck tomorrow morning, but none of that matters when all he wants is for Jeritza to do it again and again, to fuck his mouth harder and deeper and come down his throat—

When Jeritza still looks panic-stricken, Byleth looks up at him and does his best to give him a reassuring look, which is rather more difficult than he had expected considering he has his mouth occupied around a dick. So he returns his attention to Jeritza’s cock instead, working his way as far down as possible, hands stroking what he can’t reach, and his stomach drops in hot pleasure when Jeritza, very hesitantly, rolls his hips up into Byleth’s mouth once more; the action is slower, more careful, but it has Byleth leaking onto the sheets all the same. He tries to say _again,_ stupidly, and it comes out as another embarrassing groan, but Jeritza thankfully gets the message — he grabs Byleth’s hair again as he starts rocking into his mouth, fucking his throat, the bulging head of his cock leaking salty pre-cum onto his tongue and down his throat—

“Byleth,” Jeritza’s saying; then, a little more insistently and a tad more desperately, “ _Byleth,_ ” and he tugs hard on Byleth’s hair. Byleth laps up one last thin stream of white off his cock before pulling off entirely, panting and gasping for air he hadn’t realized he’d been needing for the past few seconds. His lips are red and swollen, he can tell, and drool and pre-cum alike drip down his chin — goodness, he’s _filthy,_ and yet somehow it feels good.

“What’s wrong?” Byleth eventually manages, wincing at how hoarse he already sounds. “Did I do something…”

But Jeritza is already shaking his head. His cheeks are flushed bright red, and the color goes all the way down his neck and chest. “It — No, you did wonderful… _too_ good, really. I-I wouldn’t want to… you understand.”

“Finish in my mouth?”

“Well, yes, but _must_ you say it aloud.”

Byleth smiles. “So I did well…” He’s given blowjobs before, obviously, and many times to Jeritza, but this had certainly been new. And good. _Very_ good. He’d most definitely like to do it again, in fact, and see if he can come just from that. “It appears we got sidetracked, though,” he muses aloud.

Jeritza levels him with a look. “And whose fault might that be?”

“Ah, yes, I take the blame.” Byleth returns to his earlier position, lying on his back — his cock is almost embarrassingly hard again, pressed flush against his thigh. “So if you won’t finish in my mouth…”

Jeritza grips his thighs and pushes them apart, and for the tenth time all coherent thoughts fly out of Byleth’s head. He throws his head back against the pillow with a sharp gasp when Jeritza presses his fingers against his hole again, stretching and spreading, but his hand is gone as fast as it had come. Byleth blinks, looking up at Jeritza pouring a liberal amount of oil on his slick cock and stroking himself to spread it, although it looks like it’s taking him incredible effort not to come after how close Byleth had pushed him to the edge earlier.

And then he shifts forward, and Byleth’s entire body jumps several degrees warmer when he presses his cock against his hole. Byleth already knows he’s big, but when they’re like this, he feels even bigger and thicker; for a moment, he wonders if fitting this cock inside him is even possible, or if it will rip Byleth apart in two. Possibly the worst thing about that is Byleth wouldn’t even mind.

Even now Jeritza finds the time to look down at Byleth’s face, worry crossing his expression. “Ready?”

“Jeritza, please,” Byleth sighs.

“I want to hear it.”

Byleth sighs again, but this time it’s more out of fondness than anything. He gestures for Jeritza to come closer, and when he dutifully bends down, Byleth cups his cheeks and pulls him in for a short, sweet kiss. They both taste of dick, but it’s really nothing new by this point, and Jeritza’s mouth is as warm as ever. When they separate, Byleth bumps their foreheads together and looks Jeritza in the eye when he speaks. “Yes,” he says. “I’m ready. I’m sure.”

Jeritza stares down at him, and Byleth genuinely, honestly does not think he will ever find a color more beautiful than the blue of his eyes. Then he nods, murmurs an, “alright,” and then, well.

Byleth had been expecting it to hurt a little, or at least sting, but he isn’t expecting it to feel this good. Maybe it’s because it’s Jeritza, or maybe it’s because they had practically overdone the foreplay earlier, but the moan he lets out when Jeritza finally enters him is downright degenerate; it’s only the head, but already Byleth feels more stretched out and open than he’s ever been in his life. His entire body lights up in heightened sensitivity, a whine escaping him when Jeritza, probably having noticed, pauses in place just to reach down and tease a stiff nipple between his fingers. “Wh — _Jeritza,_ ” Byleth gasps, unable to even hide his face with both his hands thoroughly occupied with gripping the sheets for some semblance of balance. “P-Please, I…”

What is he even pleading for? Byleth has no idea, only that it feels both too good and too much at once, but he wants more and more and _more._ Jeritza’s breaths are coming faster, now, more shallow, and he gives Byleth’s nipple another flick before pushing his cock further inside. Byleth chokes on a groan, hears Jeritza make a strangled sort of noise, and he feels so good, so _opened,_ and with tremendous effort he manages to reach down with one hand to wrap a hand around his own aching erection. There’s a pool of pre-cum on his stomach by now, one that slides down his sides and onto the sheets. He strokes, once, and nearly comes right there, he’s so pent up it almost hurts…

“Byleth,” Jeritza sighs. Byleth doesn’t know if he’s trying to ask a question or something, but then maybe it doesn’t entirely matter — perhaps it’s just Jeritza needing to say his name, the same way Byleth needs to grip onto something to keep himself grounded. He pushes and pushes, inching ever deeper, and Byleth whimpers weakly when he feels Jeritza’s balls against his ass. He’s so big and Byleth is so _full,_ and he barely even has the strength to keep stroking himself. “Byleth, I’m…”

“Move,” Byleth murmurs, brokenly, and Jeritza needs no further instruction.

His thrusts are slow and shallow at first, a careful push-and-pull, and Byleth is glad for it at first — if Jeritza had started off fast, Byleth may have just passed out right there for the rest of the night and well into the following day. But like this he can savor the feeling of it, the difference between a cock inside him compared to just his fingers, Jeritza’s soft pants and moans with each slide back in. Byleth tugs him back down again, arms wrapped around his neck, and kisses him again, hard — “Good,” he gasps against his mouth, “feels g-good, Jeritza—”

It’s hard to speak, and for Jeritza it looks near impossible, because when he opens his mouth all that leaves him is a garbled approximation of Byleth’s name and a groan. Byleth can’t help a laugh, and warmth flickers in Jeritza’s eyes, hazy with lust as they are. “You can go faster,” Byleth manages, though with a good deal of stammering in between. “Actually, _please_ go faster now.”

Jeritza gives him a look like he’s telling him to stop talking, but this time when he pulls out, he leaves just the tip in before _shoving_ his cock back inside, slamming right against a spot that has Byleth letting out an undignified sob. Heat explodes in his gut, runs down his spine, spikes throughout his entire body, and then before he knows it Jeritza is doing it again and again, hitting his prostate with every other thrust. “Ah — Jeritza — _please,_ ” Byleth whines. Too good, too good — his own fingers never reach this far and this deep, and when it’s Jeritza’s thick cock stretching him open, pounding into him—

“More,” Byleth begs, “ _more,_ please—” but he doubts he even needs to say such, because Jeritza is speeding up his already brutal pace, fucking Byleth hard and fast and _too good,_ biting kisses along Byleth’s neck the whole while and muffling his own moans against his throat. Wet sounds echo in the room with each slap of Jeritza’s cock against Byleth’s ass, and Byleth babbles out more pleads, more sounds and noises and words that are barely even words at all — “Close,” he pants, “I’m going to — I—”

He comes before he can even finish speaking, splattering all over his stomach, a few drops going as far as his nipples — Jeritza slows down and stops, staring down at him in awe, but Byleth shakes his head and grabs his arm. “Keep going,” he breathes, spreading his legs even wider and feeling a twinge of satisfaction through the overwhelming pleasure of his orgasm at the wide-eyed look on Jeritza’s face.

“But, Byleth—”

“Keep _going,_ ” Byleth interrupts, clenching hard around Jeritza’s cock still inside him, and Jeritza starts moving once again, foregoing the sure, slow pace from earlier and fucking him ruthlessly through his orgasm. Each slam of his cock inside fucks more cum out of Byleth’s own dick, cum spurting out onto his thighs and torso — Byleth lets go of himself to tangle his hands in Jeritza’s hair once more, whimpering his name, pushing him to go harder and faster and deeper.

He feels it when Jeritza comes, his pace going erratic, his cock twitching and throbbing inside him — and then Jeritza lets out a choked moan and cum spills inside Byleth, so much of it that it trickles out of his hole even with Jeritza’s cock inside him. The feeling of being filled up even further with both cock and cum is utterly indescribable — Byleth presses his forehead against Jeritza’s against, gasping his name, tightening around him to milk every last drop, listening to Jeritza’s cries and filing each one away to engrave in the folds of his memories.

When he finishes he slumps atop Byleth, arms and legs trembling slightly in what Byleth recognizes as a failed attempt to lift himself up. “Urgh,” Jeritza grunts, and despite the frankly disgusting mix of bodily fluids between them, Byleth can’t help but laugh again.

After another moment to catch his breath, Jeritza manages to get up just to roll onto his back on the other side of the bed next to Byleth, and then all they do for a few seconds is lie there, staring at each other — Byleth’s exhausted, but he also feels like an entirely new person. Is this what they call the afterglow? He wonders if it might be because people say their skin glows after sex, although right now it might just be because of the cum beginning to dry on his stomach. And on the sheets. Oh, dear, the _sheets._

Jeritza clears his throat. “That… was…”

“Something,” Byleth agrees, when Jeritza trails off. He still sounds raspy, and it’s probably only going to get worse tomorrow — he dearly hopes Ciel just assumes he came down with a mild cough and doesn’t question it. Speaking of Ciel, he _dearly_ hopes they hadn’t been loud enough for them to have heard; the walls here aren’t particularly thick, and though they’d initially tried to keep their voices lowered… perhaps it’s about time he start praying to Sothis and see if she’ll still listen to him.

Jeritza shuffles closer just to kiss him again, and Byleth melts at the smile he can feel against his lips. “I, for one, am glad nothing went wrong,” he says once he draws back. Then he frowns. “But this mess…”

“We can clean up tomorrow,” Byleth promises. He doesn’t have the strength to so much as sit up right now, and he’s sure Jeritza feels much the same. “For now, sleep sounds like a wise choice.”

Jeritza nods, but doesn’t look away. Byleth holds his gaze for a few confused moments before Jeritza speaks again. “Byleth.”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

Stupidly enough, all Byleth can think to say is, “O-Oh?”

Jeritza stares at him. “ _Oh?_ ”

“I mean — I love you too,” Byleth says, and he inches closer to drape one of his arms atop Jeritza’s shoulders in a half-hug. “I’m so… used to how we already are,” he says, softly, speaking against Jeritza’s sternum, “that I sometimes forget that… no, _forget_ isn’t quite the right word, but… when I am reminded of it, it just doesn’t feel real.”

“That you could love me?” Jeritza murmurs. His long hair tickles Byleth’s nose.

“No. That _you_ could love _me._ ” Byleth buries his face against the crook of Jeritza’s neck with a sigh. “I feel I have loved you for such a long time now, but never put it into words. And… And I simply never _knew._ But I do love you, I do, I do, and — and everything you are.”

Jeritza is quiet for a moment. “Everything I am,” he repeats, so very softly.

“Yes.” Byleth nods. His eyes feel hot, for some reason, and it belatedly occurs to him that he may be about to cry for reasons unknown. Is this normal after sex? He has absolutely no idea, considering he can count on one hand the amount of times he has cried and he can count on the other hand the amount of times he has had sex. “You and Ciel and Mercedes and… and, just. Everything. If you tried to kill me I do not think I would stop you.”

“Do not say that ever again,” Jeritza says, sounding stricken.

Byleth huffs a laugh. “Alright. But my point stands.”

He falls silent after that, and now the exhaustion hits him again, harder than ever. His eyes fall closed of their own accord, his breathing already beginning to deepen and his thoughts beginning to cloud over. All Byleth can register is the warmth of Jeritza’s body, the contented feeling settling over his entire person, the atmosphere — the _afterglow_ — chasing away all other unimportant, uncomfortable details.

Then there’s a hand on his hair, stroking softly and slowly, and a pair of lips brushing against the crown of his head. “And I feel the same,” he hears Jeritza breathe. The Byleth of the past would never have thought Jeritza could sound like this. “Everything you are.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the kudos and comments!! glad to see everyone likes awkward parents bylitza <3
> 
> this chapter features minor casphardt, along with appearances from the other black eagles!

“… _and,_ ” Ciel adds, with great feeling, “I told him I’d kill him if he got any closer.”

“That’s wonderful, dear,” Mercedes says, pouring them a cup of tea. “Plotting murder already. Could I be any prouder?”

As it turns out, Byleth’s proposed battle plan — with modifications from Jeritza and Ciel, naturally — had gone swimmingly. Jeritza had packed their lunch with some tomatoes and when lunch break came around, Ciel jabbed their knife into the unfortunate fruit, sent tomato juice flying everywhere, and then turned to face the bullies with their tomato-stained knife. Granted, the death threat hadn’t been discussed prior, but Byleth supposes learning to adjust to the situation on the battlefield is important experience for any six-year-old child.

Ciel nods solemnly. “Jeri 2 helped a lot.”

“Did he?” Mercedes asks, sliding Jeritza a knowing look. Jeritza avoids her gaze and focuses on slicing his cake into little bite-sized pieces. “I’m glad you’re getting along with him, Ciel. Last time you two met, it hadn’t turned out quite as well.”

Another nod. “But we’re okay now.”

“Really? Is he your friend?”

“No.” Ciel blinks. “Ally.”

Mercedes smiles at Byleth and Jeritza, although this smile looks less friendly and more threatening, as if she is asking them exactly what they are teaching this impressionable child. It’s Byleth’s turn to avoid her gaze as well, doing his best to look extremely preoccupied with his own cup of tea. “Ally,” she repeats, slowly. “How might that be different from a friend?”

“Helps in battle,” Ciel explains. “Jeri 2 has a very big… knife.” They frown. “Sword…?”

“It’s a scythe,” Jeritza tells them, and Ciel nods in understanding once more. Mercedes turns her eyes on him, and he visibly quails under her look. “I am… simply informing them,” he grumbles under his breath. “Knowledge is power, or whatever it is you say.”

“Also Aveline,” Ciel pipes up, sounding even more excited now. “She’s an ally too. She can use a lance already. But she was down with a cold the other day… she promised to beat up the idiots next time though.”

“Why do you know that word, dear?”

Ciel looks confused. “Lance? Cold?”

“Idiots,” Mercedes clarifies.

“Oh.” Ciel points at both Byleth and Jeritza. Byleth is now seriously considering just plucking Ciel up and leaving the orphanage before Mercedes can gut them. “Byle an’ Jeri call each other that a lot.”

Mercedes sighs and shakes her head, looking very much like she had already known this but wanted to ask anyway. “I see. Of course. Ciel, I would very much advise against using that word when other people can hear you. I imagine your teacher wouldn’t like that…” She refills Ciel’s tea, because somehow the child had drained their cup within two seconds. “Do you like tea?”

“I like Mercie.”

Mercedes turns to Byleth and her brother once more. “Never mind. It looks like you _have_ done a good job raising them,” she says cheerfully.

Jeritza closes his eyes as if sending a silent, mental thank-you to Ciel. Byleth hurries to do the same.

Visits to the orphanage are, unsurprisingly, still Jeritza’s favorite times of the week — the only difference now is that Ciel accompanies them in the carriage, staring wide-eyed out the window for the whole ride no matter how many times they’ve seen the same scenery. Ciel never really speaks to the other children, though, instead choosing to actively avoid them like how Byleth imagines they did in the past and they do now during school.

Aveline must have been very persistent to get friendly enough with Ciel, considering how their personalities are polar opposites, Byleth muses. Even their appearances contrast starkly — Ciel’s perpetually-messy light brown hair reaches just around their shoulders while Aveline’s bright red hair goes as far down as her chest. Ciel is tiny and Aveline has nearly a head over them; Ciel has electric-blue eyes and Aveline’s got sunset-orange ones. Byleth wouldn’t be surprised if Ciel turns out to be terrible with lances too.

Dimly he registers someone calling his name and tunes back in to the conversation. “Have you thought about which school to send them to once they’re older?” Mercedes is asking. Ciel is now busy playing with a stray cat that had followed them inside the building.

Jeritza shrugs. Byleth shares a look with him, and an unspoken understanding passes between them. “The Officers Academy would not be a bad choice,” Byleth slowly says. He and Jeritza have been invited to speak there a handful of times, and the faculty staff are still friendly with them; Byleth is fairly sure Ciel would be well-educated there, at the very least, and it doesn’t seem as dangerous as it was during the year Byleth became professor.

“Ah, but the tuition fee is quite something even now,” Mercedes sighs. “I’ve considered sending some of the older children here to study there to free up space here in the building, but I barely even have enough gold to send one of them there, much less a dozen.”

“Oh. That.” Jeritza coughs into his fist. “We may have… started up a business, of sorts.”

Mercedes’ eyebrows disappear under her hair. “A business? Have you finally made an official odd-jobs company or some such?”

“Nothing like that. It’s… well…”

Ciel chooses this moment to speak once more. “Aveline calls it a dojo.”

“A… dojo?” Mercedes says, sounding incredulous.

“Byle and Jeri teach her how to fight and then Aveline’s parents pay,” Ciel explains. It’s admittedly a very sweet, succinct explanation. When had Ciel gotten so good at explaining? Byleth feels proud for all of one moment before remembering Ciel’s two major influences — him and Jeritza — communicate mostly through silence and the occasional glance.

“Oh, a _dojo,_ ” Mercedes says again, now sounding even more bewildered, like she can’t quite believe things had turned out this way. She gives Byleth and Jeritza a quizzical look. “I suppose I can’t say it doesn’t suit you, but teaching six-year-old children how to wield a lance?”

“It sounds impossible, I know, but this Aveline girl is quite tall for her age,” Jeritza says.

“That… is… not what I meant, Emile.”

“It happened accidentally, really,” Byleth sighs. “We were planning to just do it for free, because she’s Ciel’s friend, but, well, her parents handed over some gold without even asking and then left before we could return it. And… er… it’s just kept going on over time.” He decides to leave out the fact that they hadn’t bothered to clarify the situation to Aveline’s parents. What they don’t know surely won’t hurt them, and it’s obvious they’re rich enough to afford this weekly training sessions at the Eisner-Hrym household or whatever it is the others in the village call them.

They’re still not married yet. Byleth wonders if that’s something they should correct, but then the process of arranging a wedding sounds so tiring and redundant that he supposes they can live a little longer without one. At the very least, he knows exactly who would officiate it.

Mercedes leans back with a thoughtful, amused hum, sipping her tea. The cat in Ciel’s arms meows and bats at Ciel’s cheeks with its paws. “I’m glad you three are getting along well,” she says, eventually, her smile warm and reassuring. “And here I thought it would take longer for you to adjust.”

“We’ve… adjusted?” Jeritza says, sounding confused.

“Well, nothing serious has happened yet and no one has died, so you seem quite adjusted to me,” Mercedes says. Byleth wants to point out that something seems wrong there, but when he can’t quite discern _what_ part of that is wrong, exactly, he decides to just stay quiet. “If you want to take in any other children, you know you don’t need to look any further.”

Byleth and Jeritza seem to shake their heads on cue. “It’s not like Ciel is a huge handful,” Byleth says, ruffling Ciel’s hair, “but I don’t know if we really want another one.”

“Haha. I thought so, really. Ah, but then you must tell me if Ciel gets any more friends—”

“Allies,” Ciel stubbornly corrects.

“Allies,” Mercedes amends, smiling indulgently. “It certainly seems like they’re beginning to talk more and more often. The first time you two visited after taking them in, they hardly spoke more than two words… but of course it’s a stark difference from before you three even met.”

Ciel doesn’t seem to have been listening, because they look a mix of confused and surprised when Byleth, Jeritza, and Mercedes all look at them at once. “What…” They shy away, holding the cat before their face to avoid their eyes — the cat, for its part, meows again.

When they get home that day, Ciel follows Jeritza into the weapon storeroom to presumably watch him clean their various weapons once again, but Byleth pauses in place to fish out a lone letter in their mailbox. It’s from Ciel’s school, he realizes, and for one terrifying second he fears Ciel truly did stab someone with their knife and somehow forgot to recount that part in their story, but relaxes when he draws the parchment out of the letter and finds no words along the lines of _assault, murder,_ or _expulsion_ from a quick scan.

He does, however, spot the words _field trip_ and _parent chaperone,_ and for some reason these fill him with more dread than he imagines the previous three would have.

“Ciel?” Byleth calls, following the other two into the house. Ciel looks up, blinking, their eyes already narrowed in suspicion at the letter in his hand. “Is your class going on a field trip or… something?” He knows what a field trip is, in theory, but he doesn’t actually know much about what happens there. Is it a bit like preliminary training? Do they go take on lesser bandits or something?

“Oh.” Ciel looks just as confused as Byleth feels. “Yes. Teacher said something about that… but… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

Ciel shakes their head and returns their attention to their small but ever-growing collection of knives. Byleth can’t help but be proud they’re developing weapon maintaining skills so early in life, then pauses to wonder where on earth they had even procured that many knives. He means to ask, but then Jeritza moves to stand beside him, peering down at the letter. “A field trip?” he reads. “That is a sort of excursion, is it not?”

“Excursion…” Byleth supposes that doesn’t sound incorrect. “Have you been on a field trip before, Jeritza?”

Jeritza shakes his head. “Based off the term, though, I shall assume it involves exploring unknown places.”

“Yes, I thought something similar.” Byleth ponders this a bit more. The letter hadn’t explained much in the way of what a field trip _is,_ most likely assuming parents would already be familiar with the concept, and Ciel seems perfectly unconcerned. He skims it again, but finds nothing else of note… until he spots what seems to be a location. “Hm? They plan to venture into Lake Teutates.”

Jeritza’s eyes narrow. “I see. Not my first choice for early training, personally, but it would be dangerous if they disturb the beast slumbering there.”

Byleth winces. Right, he remembers that: during the war, the Immovable, or so Saint Indech had been dubbed, had engaged in a fierce battle with them there over the sacred bow, The Inexhaustible. He has no desire to repeat that particular day again. “It appears they will let us go as parent chaperones,” he says, pronouncing the unfamiliar words slowly. “For protection purposes, understandably.” Even now there are still reports of bandits and treasure hoarders attempting to invade the ancient temple there, despite how well-guarded it is by Saint Indech himself and his illusionary soldiers.

“Then it should be no problem if we both go,” Jeritza concludes, already turning back to the array of swords and lances in the weapon storeroom.

Byleth means to say the same, but frowns when he rereads the passage’s details. “Wait. It… looks like they will only let one parent per child go.”

There is a long pause. Jeritza stares at him, then at the letter, then at him again. He sets down the sword he had picked up and makes his way back to Byleth’s side. “When it comes to fighting…” he starts, slowly.

“You outclass me in brute strength, yes,” Byleth graciously admits. “But I am used to protecting others, especially inexperienced students, in a fight.”

“There would be no need to protect anyone if the threat is disposed of immediately.”

“One cannot always rely on that. What if there are more enemies than you can handle?”

“There are never too many enemies for me to handle,” Jeritza huffs. Byleth cannot believe what he is seeing. “This can be no different from our… what is it called again — dojo training sessions. I go first, and the next time another one of these excursions comes around, it will be your turn.”

“But…” Byleth frowns. He wants to be there for Ciel, and probably Aveline too. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Jeritza with their child, but he also doesn’t want something to potentially happen to any of them while he’s blissfully ignorant at home. If only they could both go… should he just believe things will be fine and leave it all to Jeritza? But he knows in his time during the war that just _believing things will be fine_ hardly ever works as well as actually going to _ensure_ things will be fine with your own two hands, or perhaps with your own trusty sword.

Jeritza suddenly turns to Ciel. “Who would you like to go with you on your field trip?” he asks sharply.

Ciel blinks blandly up at them. “Huh?”

“Your school is asking for a parent chaperone,” Byleth explains, relieved. Right, of course. They should have just asked for Ciel’s opinion from the start. “But only one of us can go.” Goodness, this feels a little like asking Ciel which of them they like more. It isn’t like Byleth hasn’t wondered the same a few times, especially considering they seem to like Jeritza more sometimes, but…

No, no. He has to swallow his pride and accept whatever answer Ciel gives them now. It’s really only natural for a child to have a bias towards one parent, and Ciel should be no different—

“Eh,” Ciel says, and turns away again. “You pick.”

Byleth runs a hand down his face. Isn’t this just a case of them being too disinterested to care about the topic rather than choosing favorites? “I… see,” he sighs, accepting their defeat. “So in the end, we will still have to make the decision on our own.” He casts Jeritza a side-glance to see his reaction, but his expression is as inscrutable as ever.

Just how are they going to do this…? Byleth wracks his head for a fair, non-violent way to solve this dilemma until Jeritza suddenly speaks again. “A tournament, then.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“I propose a tournament.” Jeritza’s eyes flash in what Byleth unfortunately recognizes as that familiar competitive spirit of his. “Whoever drives the other to the brink of death first shall accompany Ciel on their excursion.”

“Please just call it a field trip.” Byleth mulls the concept over. It’s not a bad idea, he supposes, and it’s very… Jeritza-like. “Fine. I accept your offer. Will you be ready in an hour?”

Jeritza has the gall to look down on him. Not that he doesn’t do that on a regular basis, but he looks _down_ on him in a special way that makes Byleth feel even smaller than he already is. “Hmph. I am ready now.”

“Ah, is that right?” Byleth can’t resist a smirk of his own. “So am I.”

And at first, the idea actually seems to work. Byleth hasn’t worked up a sweat like this since he’d had to actually fight for his life back in the war, and the bandits and thieves they take on every now and then can’t compete to Jeritza fighting seriously in the least. For a few moments, it almost feels like the old days, sparring in the monastery’s training grounds and trying to learn every little thing about Jeritza — how he held his lance, how he swung it just so, how his brow furrowed minutely just before a downward strike — both to get an upper hand on him in battle and just for the fun of it.

But they know each other’s quirks and nuances too well. Each time Byleth thinks he’s finally driven Jeritza to a corner, the other man shows him up with a surprise attack that has them back on equal footing again, and each time Jeritza looks ready to deal the finishing blow, Byleth sneaks past him with a counterattack at the ready. Byleth has no idea how long they’ve been going, but though his feet are starting to drag a little and breathing is starting to become a little more difficult, this is one spar he isn’t going to yield. Jeritza’s expression tells him the other man must feel much the same.

Just a little more, Byleth tells himself. He raises his sword at the same time Jeritza readies his lance. Just a little more, and then—

The cottage door opens. “Byle? Jeri?” Ciel totters outside, looking utterly miserable. “Dinner?”

Byleth blinks. Across the clearing, he can see Jeritza lowering his lance with a disappointed expression. “Dinner?” he repeats, stupidly. And then he looks up at the sky and—oh. It’s dark. Is… that why he’d been having more trouble seeing? He had attributed that to exhaustion too.

Ciel looks disgruntled. “Fighting and fighting… you scared all the cats away.” Then they turn around and return inside — there’s a warm orange glow coming from within, and that alone is enough to suck up the last of the energy from Byleth’s body.

He slumps back against a nearby tree with a tired groan, catching Jeritza steadying himself on his lance as well. “It appears… we must call it a draw,” Jeritza sighs. He gives himself another few seconds to catch his breath before standing again and walking over to Byleth to extend a hand. Byleth takes it — his palm is rough but reassuring, and he’s suddenly extremely glad Ciel had interrupted them after all. “But this discussion is not over.”

Byleth shakes his head, allowing a smile. “No, I suppose it isn’t. Any other ideas?”

“For dinner? Plenty.”

“No, for…” Byleth shakes his head. “Never mind. Yes, for dinner.”

They still have another week before the field trip next weekend, but Byleth knows all too well how quickly a week can pass. He spends a good amount of time thinking it over and running ideas through his head the next day — thankfully it’s Jeritza’s turn to help with training Aveline today, so Byleth gets the afternoon to himself to ponder. Contests and competitions are undoubtedly the best way to get through both him and Jeritza, but if a match between them will only end in exhaustion, hunger, and no decision being made…

“Yeah!” Aveline crows, throwing her training lance up in the air and jumping up to catch it, complete with a little twirl. “I did it, I did it! Ciel, did you see that just now? I totally beat up that bad guy!”

“That’s a training dummy,” Ciel says evenly, sitting on the couch and munching on some snacks.

“Come on, just go with it! You’re the royal and I’m your knight! Teacher Jeri is the big bad dragon!”

“I don’t remember agreeing to this,” Jeritza mutters, staring down at the wrecked training dummy. “But good job. I think.”

Aveline’s eyes sparkle. “That’s right! Teacher Jeri, I wanted to ask you, can you let me ride a dragon? I’ll do a real good job, I swear! I wanna ride a dragon and, and, umm, attack from its back and stuff! And it’ll breathe fire and—”

“No dragons,” Jeritza says. “Only wyverns.”

“Okay, I’ll take ‘em!”

“We don’t have any.”

“What? Lame! Where do I get one?”

Jeritza rubs his temples like he’s just now realizing the source of his hair loss. Byleth does his best to give him a reassuring smile, and coaxes Aveline over to his side. “Some schools offer training courses and the like. If you’re lucky, they might have some training wyverns for interested students.”

Aveline looks ready to start jumping up and down. “What? Seriously? No way! Okay! So I just gotta get real good at fighting, and then I’ll definitely be able to go to a school like that, right?”

Byleth means to say something along the lines of, “it’s not that simple, see, there’s this thing called student debt,” then realizes Aveline’s parents are loaded and stops short. “Ah… right, yes,” he manages, nodding so stiffly his neck creaks. Ciel shoots him a confused look. “Well, maybe that was just in the Officers Academy, though. I’m not sure about schools here in the village and such.” Aveline would fit right in the academy, Byleth’s fairly sure. She reminds him an awful lot of Caspar, which he supposes means Ciel is her Linhardt…

Wait a minute. Aveline and Ciel…

“Jeritza!” he shouts, jumping off the couch. Jeritza snaps to attention. “I have an idea. How about another match?”

“Oh, now?” Jeritza tosses the training lance in his hands away and starts off towards the weapon storeroom, likely in pursuit of the Scythe of Sariel.

“No, no — not with _us,_ ” Byleth hurries to clarify, before Jeritza can whip out his weapon and possibly send Aveline into paroxysms of admiration. “With these two.”

Jeritza pauses and stares at him. “With… the… children?”

“It would be good training. Ciel is excellent with knives and Aveline is learning about lances at an impressive pace. Do you not think it time to see how they fare against not just training dummies but against other worthy opponents as well?”

“What’s that?” Aveline pipes up, looking between the two of them. “Are we gonna fight? Ooh, can we, can we?”

“I… suppose the idea has merit,” Jeritza murmurs, coolly ignoring Aveline bouncing around his feet. “Rather like the tournaments they used to hold at Garreg Mach every moon, right? Except these children are around ten years younger, so we will have to be careful.”

Byleth smiles. “What do you two think?”

“Hm…” Ciel looks unsure. “Don’t wanna hurt Ave…”

“What? You’re so sure of yourself!” Aveline exclaims, waving her lance around. “How’re you gonna hurt me if you can’t even get close to me? Come on, Ciel! Let’s play!”

“You mean fight,” Ciel says.

“Play!”

“It looks like they’ve decided,” Byleth notes, when Ciel slides off the couch with a dramatic sigh and follows Aveline out into the garden. At the back of his head, he hopes his faith magic skills haven’t deteriorated from disuse, since it’s starting to look like he’s going to need them.

Outside, the cats sunning themselves atop flat rocks lift their heads to watch Aveline and Ciel take up their positions on either side of the small clearing Byleth and Jeritza had used to spar in just yesterday; Ciel had decided on bringing along two of their knives, while Jeritza lent Aveline a less worn training lance for today. “Okay! Bring it on, Ciel!” Aveline declares, apparently unconcerned with any pre-match rules. “I’m gonna totally win and prove I’m getting better!”

Byleth takes a seat next to a couple of cats, who proceed to climb onto his lap. “Who are you placing your bet on?”

“The girl, obviously,” Jeritza says blandly. “Ciel hasn’t been trained in combat nearly as much.”

“Oh, hm. But Ciel knows how to conceal their weapons and attack when Aveline might least expect it.”

“True. But one hit from Aveline and Ciel will crumple like paper.” Jeritza frowns. “Was it wise to equip them with weapons, now that I think about it…? The lance might be scratched…”

As expected, Aveline strikes first, rushing across the clearing and thrusting the lance towards Ciel. Ciel scrambles out of the way and makes a dash for Aveline’s back, the glint of a knife coming from one of their pockets, but Aveline swings the lance and knocks Ciel back with the length of the handle. Ciel tumbles across the grass, thankfully relatively unhurt but looking tired already. “Can I go back to sleep?” they mumble.

“Let’s go again!” Aveline cheers.

This time, Ciel is luckier and successfully gets Aveline from behind, reading her movements and avoiding the lance-swing when Aveline tries it again. They jab the handle of one of their knives against Aveline’s back, then trip Aveline’s longer legs when she tries to steady herself with a swift kick to the inside of her knee. Aveline falls with an _oof,_ but instead of complaints or protests, she shoots right back up with a grin. “Whoa! Ciel, that was awesome!”

Ciel looks bewildered. “Really?”

“Yeah! I didn’t see any of that coming! You were like, whoosh! Bam! Pow! And I was like, ouch!” She mimes falling once more, staining her already-dirty clothes with yet more grass. “Again, again!”

In the next round, Aveline manages to knock one of Ciel’s knives out of their hands before they would have gotten her from behind again and jabs the end of the lance handle against their chest, pushing them back against a tree. In the round after that, Ciel does the same, disarming Aveline of her lance with a twist of their wrist and surprising her long enough to tackle her to the ground with a knife against her throat (unsurprisingly enough, Aveline finds this more cool than frightening). In the round after that, Aveline intentionally lets herself be disarmed just to catch Ciel off-guard by punching them as soon as the lance is out of her hands.

“I am starting to think,” Byleth says, when the nth round has come and gone and the two have still maintained a perfectly equal ratio of wins and losses, “that this was a bad idea.”

Jeritza massages his temple, then stands up from his seat. Judging by the way he stumbles for a moment, his leg must have fallen asleep. “Enough,” he says, catching the attention of the two children: Ciel looks exhausted, while Aveline looks like she can still go another dozen rounds. “It’s clear this is going nowhere.”

“You mean I won by a mile!?” Aveline gasps.

“No. There is no winner. It will be a draw.”

“Aw, what? But why?” Aveline whines. She sets her lance down, at least, which must mean she’s more tired than she looks if she won’t push for another go. “Is it ‘cause we’re both good?”

Jeritza nods. “It is nearly sunset, besides. Come inside before your parents arrive and pass out at the sight of you.”

Aveline looks down at her muddied, grass-stained clothes. “What’s with the sight of me?”

Inside, Ciel curls up in a ball and falls dead asleep on the couch not five minutes in to Aveline recounting every single thing she found ‘cool’ during their match earlier, and when her parents come to pick her up she starts from the very top once again. “What… happened to you?” her father manages, looking aghast. Byleth winces — he’d done his best to get the dirt and stains out as best as he could in what little time there was, but…

Aveline tugs at her clothes. “It’s nothing! Anyway, listen, listen! So, right, I went _hyaaa!_ at Ciel, and then Ciel was like, _aaah!_ And then—”

“That’s nice, dear,” her mother says blandly, patting down Aveline’s ruffled hair before looking back up at Byleth. “Here’s the usual payment, good sirs. Ah, yes, will either of you be going to the field trip next week as a chaperone?” She smiles. “I’ve heard the children will be going to Lake Teutates. Quite exciting, isn’t it?”

“Er… right,” Byleth mumbles. _Exciting?_ Aren’t they at all concerned for the possibility of their daughter getting hurt? “We haven’t decided which of us will be going yet, no.”

“Oh, I see. Hm…” Aveline’s father strokes his chin. “Well, with how many parents are going anyway, protection shouldn’t be a concern, at least.”

Byleth manages to keep himself from bristling. “Is the area not dangerous?” It had been difficult enough dealing with the illusory enemies with a squadron of combat-trained, war-hardened soldiers — how much more taxing would it be to potentially protect a whole class of little children and their parents?

The parents exchange a look, much to Byleth’s confusion, then return to him. “Perhaps?” her mother allows. “There are some poisonous plants and insects in the area, I believe. We receive some of our stock from there after all. But I’m sure the children will be advised not to touch anything anyway.”

Jeritza steps up silently from behind, staring down at all three of them for a moment. “Is this about the excursion?”

“The field trip.”

“The field trip,” Jeritza reluctantly amends.

Aveline’s father nods. “Have either of you been to Lake Teutates before? I assure you, it’s far from life-threatening. I am looking forward to it myself — the wildlife is best observed in its natural habitat, of course.”

The wildlife… is this man perhaps referring to Saint Indech? Do regular people actually see The Immovable as an extremely large turtle? “I… agree,” Byleth chokes out. “Yes, we’ve both been before. Which is why we’re worried about the possible dangers.”

“Personally, I can’t imagine anything dangerous happening,” Aveline’s mother muses. “They’ll be with some reliable chaperones other than the parents, of course. They even invited someone who served in the war before, can you believe it? But anyway, the only dangerous thing that might happen is a carriage accident on the way — which I hope won’t happen at all, of course,” she adds, rapping her knuckles on the wood of their wall. Jeritza follows the movement warily, like the action is equivalent to her drawing a weapon on them. “Well, we’ve dawdled here long enough. Have a good night, you two!”

“Thank you, have a good night,” Byleth says, stiffly; Aveline manages a wave goodbye before the door closes. He turns to Jeritza right away, glad the look of incredulity he knows is on his face is mirrored on Jeritza’s own. “Can you believe it?” he hisses, feeling particularly incensed. “ _Not dangerous?_ Have either of _them_ been to Lake Teutates before?”

“I, for one, am astonished they have the gall to refer to that great big beast as ‘wildlife,’” Jeritza murmurs, apparently too astonished to speak any louder. “Byleth, this is impossible. If we let people like them go to that place with a gaggle of children, they are all going to perish.”

Byleth nods. “It’s settled. Forget trying to decide which of us should go. One will be with the children and one will simply have to follow from a discreet distance. I can volunteer for the latter — I am used to following targets from my experience as a mercenary.”

“Very well. I must admit espionage has never been one of my stronger suits.” Jeritza turns to face Ciel still peacefully asleep on the couch, then sighs. “What sort of incompetent fools would we have entrusted our child to if we hadn’t properly discussed this?”

“I suppose we have one thing to thank Aveline’s parents for, then.” Byleth carefully takes a seat beside Ciel, pleasantly surprised when they mumble in their sleep and shift closer to him. “Is dinner prepared?”

Jeritza nods. “But give them another minute to sleep.” In an undertone, he adds, “I’m proud of them.”

“For their knifework earlier?”

“For that, and everything else,” Jeritza says, and his voice warms Byleth’s chest almost as much as his smile.

There are hundreds of preparations to make for the trip, and only a handful of days to make them: despite what Aveline’s mother had said about the school inviting a war veteran along on the excursion (damn, now Jeritza has Byleth calling it that now), Byleth doesn’t trust her claim one bit. It’s highly likely some lowly soldier who fought in one battle and managed to make it out alive through sheer luck will be their sole protector there in case of danger, so in the end everything still falls on Byleth and Jeritza’s shoulders.

“First, it appears that the carriages will stop halfway through and let the children walk the rest of the way,” Byleth says, pointing to a small marker on the old, tattered map they’d found in the bottom of a pile of things they’d previously marked useless. It’s hard to pin down exactly where this remote village they live in lies, but Byleth estimates it to be on the fringes of Rowe territory, putting them at about a few hours’ trip away from Lake Teutates. “What do you remember about the last time we went there?”

Jeritza frowns. “I must admit I cannot remember much outside of the battle itself. That at least means the walk outside the temple was unremarkable, but there is still the threat of bandits and thieves.”

Byleth nods. “In that case, you’ll need your scythe, but it’s too big to hide from the other parents or the teacher. If in case they don’t let you bring weapons on the carriage, you can entrust it with me.”

“Understood. Now if they think to venture inside the temple itself, or even around its borders…”

Ciel passes by them during one of these lengthy discussions of theirs, idly nibbling away on one of Mercedes’ baked treats. “What’re you doin’?” they ask, peering at the map spread out on the desk, their eyes following the numerous lines and markers Byleth has drawn around the region of Teutates. “Is this for the field trip?”

“Yes.” Jeritza crouches down and places both of his hands on Ciel’s shoulders. “Ciel, whatever happens, know that I am prepared to lay down my life for you. Escaping to safety and leaving me behind, no matter how dangerous the situation, will always be the wisest choice.”

Ciel stares at him. And then their eyes start to water.

“…Oh,” Jeritza says, right before Ciel buries their face in his chest and starts bawling.

They assure Ciel that no, neither Byleth nor Jeritza are about to be dying anytime soon, and Jeritza is indeed very sorry for even implying anything like that. Crying at least tires them out quickly enough and makes it easier to coax them to sleep that night, giving Byleth and Jeritza more time to smooth out their planning and preparing. Byleth scours books on Saint Indech in the local library to look for any other information that might be useful, while Jeritza helps Ciel pack their bag for the trip, finding ways to slip in as many of their knives as possible.

The week passes far too quickly, and soon enough the day before the field trip arrives. Aveline drops by the house with Ciel after school that day, chattering on about how excited she is for tomorrow (and only making the pit of dread in Byleth’s stomach grow worse) and how much _fun_ it’s going to be (which has Jeritza shooting her looks of betrayal, as if she, too, is one of the mindless sheep believing this journey free of danger).

Ciel, bless them, asks, “Are you bringing a lance?”

“Lance?” Aveline blinks. “Well… I didn’t think about it, but sure, why not!” She turns to face Byleth, who happens to be standing closer. “Teacher Byle, can I borrow one of the training lances for tomorrow? If anything happens, I gotta be ready!”

“Ah… yes, of course,” Byleth says, unable to quite resist his sigh of relief. To the side, he spots Jeritza looking a little less betrayed as well. “Let me get one for you then. Try not to break it.”

“That reminds me, we haven’t submitted my name to the school authorities yet,” Jeritza mentions, when Byleth returns from the storeroom to bestow a training lance upon the jumping Aveline. “Shall we go now? I trust Ciel can keep Aveline from trashing the house for half an hour.”

“Sure. There’ll hardly be time to do so tomorrow anyway.” Byleth shrugs on a coat and ruffles the children’s heads, telling them to watch themselves for a bit, then heads out the cottage with Jeritza. It’s still mid-afternoon, the sun beating mercilessly down from above; the heat is a pain, but it’s certainly good weather for traveling as opposed to a rainstorm. Byleth hopes the same can be said for tomorrow. “Are you worried?”

“Of course,” Jeritza grunts. His hair is down for once, and Byleth itches to run his fingers down the blonde locks he knows are soft. “I am confident in my strength, but not so much in my… protection. I am only used to fighting alongside you.”

It’s probably ridiculous to be flustered over a comment like that now after being with Jeritza for this long, but somehow Byleth finds his cheeks warming anyway. “Is that flattery I hear?”

“Just the truth.” Jeritza gives him a side-glance. “Are you sure you can keep up with the carriages? If need be, I may upend one to hold up the—”

“I will ensure there will be no need for that,” Byleth sighs.

They’ve only stepped foot within the school building itself a few times, most of them during the enrollment process a few months back, but unlike Garreg Mach it thankfully isn’t big enough to get lost in. After asking around a bit, they make their way to the office of the head teacher in charge of the students in Ciel and Aveline’s year, whom they apparently have to speak with to confirm Jeritza’s participation. “Looking at this place now,” Byleth mumbles, “it’s not a bad school, isn’t it? They offer classes for the upper grades as well.”

Jeritza looks at him. “Are you considering letting Ciel study here rather than in Garreg Mach, then?”

“It was just a thought. If in case we’d rather have them somewhere close by…” _And somewhere less costly…_

Jeritza is quiet for a moment before speaking again. “It doesn’t matter overly much to me,” he says, “whether they study here or there. But we should ask for their opinion as well.”

Byleth sighs. “You’re right.” Though knowing Ciel, they’d probably leave the decision up to the two of them anyway. Still, he has a feeling they’d also want to stay and study here rather than go somewhere foreign and unfamiliar — making new friends is hard enough for them, and they might clam up around strangers like they already do around people who aren’t Byleth, Jeritza, Mercedes, or Aveline.

Well, they still have about ten years to go before they have to worry about that. Byleth glances up at Jeritza, who nods sedately, then turns to push the door of the head teacher’s office open. This is it. This is where their plans will officially be set in motion. One tiny misstep from either of them and they risk ruining everything they had painstakingly prepared the past week—

“Oh! Good day, sirs!” someone — the head teacher, probably — says, springing to their feet from behind a large, cluttered desk. “You are — ah, yes! Misters Eisner and Hrym, isn’t it? The parents of young Ciel?”

“…I don’t remember him being this messy,” Jeritza mutters.

“Me neither,” Byleth mutters back, “but it shouldn’t be an issue. Proceed as planned.” He clears his throat and approaches the desk, Jeritza a step behind him. “Good day. Yes, that’s us. You remember?”

“Of course, of course. You two are the only ones in the class who haven’t responded to our letter, after all,” the man chuckles.

Byleth looks away in a failed attempt to hide his embarrassed wince. “Forgive our tardiness. We had quite a… struggle trying to choose whom among us will be going. But in any case, we’ve decided that Je—”

“Worry not! One parent suddenly came down with illness and cancelled on us just today,” the man barrels on, apparently not having heard a word Byleth had said. Byleth blinks, nonplussed and more than a little insulted that he’d been so rudely interrupted. “That leaves a spot open for another chaperone, but on such short notice I haven’t been able to contact anyone who might be interested. Would you two be willing to take on the role?”

Byleth stares at him for a long while. He opens his mouth but finds himself unable to muster words. The teacher, looking blissfully ignorant, simply goes on smiling and waiting for an answer.

“Yes,” Jeritza says.

“Wait—” Byleth whirls to face him. “Wait, Jeritza. This — This is—”

“It is more convenient, is it not?” Jeritza asks, although one look at his face tells Byleth he’s just as shaken by this development as Byleth feels. “At the very least, we won’t have to… you know.”

Byleth does know. There won’t be a need for Byleth to trail behind the carriages at a pace that will neither tire him out too fast nor leave him too far behind, and there won’t be a need for Byleth to casually stroll in and join the group when the children and parents disembark from the carriages to walk the rest of the way to Teutates. “But our weapons?” he hisses, glancing hesitantly at the teacher. “If they won’t let us bring them aboard?”

Jeritza’s eyes narrow. He considers this question for all of two seconds, then says, “They will have no choice.”

Classic Jeritza. Byleth could weep at his reassuring words. He sighs, straightens, and turns to face the teacher properly once more. “Yes, alright,” he says, even though Jeritza had already confirmed it for them earlier. “It would be an honor. Thank you.”

The man beams. “Wonderful! I’ll arrange the carriage seatings for you and your child. Any preferences for other companions?”

“Er…” Byleth shares a glance with Jeritza. “Aveline… she’s our child’s best friend.”

“Ah, perfect, her father suggested the same thing. Well, thank you for your time, sirs,” the teacher says, bowing again and again that Byleth feels reluctantly compelled to do the same. “Do you have the letter? Just for official purposes — thank you,” he says again, when Jeritza hands over the letter, pinched between two of his fingers as if dropping it in the trash bin. “I’ll handle things from here! Thank you, thank you.”

His repeated thanks are starting to grate on Byleth’s ears. “Er… right,” Byleth says, awkwardly, and tugs on Jeritza’s sleeve as they make a quick escape out of the office. Speaking to people sometimes truly does feel like a more daunting task than going up against Saint Indech the second time around.

“So… that has been settled,” Jeritza muses aloud. Warm orange sunshine comes in through the windows lining the corridor, slanting against their feet. “I am admittedly both pleasantly surprised and disappointed. I was rather looking forward to seeing your acting.”

Byleth cringes. “My _acting?_ ”

“For when you were going to join the group.”

“Urgh. That, at least, I am glad there will be no need for.” The plan was to have Byleth casually join the group once they arrived at Teutates under the excuse that he had been taking a walk in the area. Byleth shudders at the very thought of trying to pretend the lake is a perfectly normal place to take a walk in. “In any case, this is good news. Now at least we shall be together in case anything untoward happens. You’ve heard the rumors of bandits and thieves intercepting carriages on their way?”

Jeritza nods, his expression going serious. “Fools,” he mutters. “Let them try.”

They wake up earlier than usual the next morning; Ciel insists on carrying their stuffed backpack of supplies by themselves, and though Byleth has his doubts on them being able to walk for an extended period of time while carrying something more or less double their size, he supposes it’ll help build stamina. A line of five carriages await them at the edge of the village, and they squeeze in one along with Aveline and her father, who begins to regale them with his expectations of the ‘wildlife’ he expects to encounter there (next to Byleth, Jeritza audibly grinds his teeth).

“Ah, I… see you brought weapons along as well,” Aveline’s father weakly notes, staring at Jeritza’s scythe, Byleth’s sword, and the knives Ciel is toying with. “Honestly, I was bewildered as to why Aveline insisted on bringing along a lance, but I suppose it’s rather like how children grow attached to toys and blankets?”

He’s speaking like it’s a question rather than a statement. Jeritza is as silent as ever, staring out the window as the carriage begins to trundle on along the dirt path, so Byleth supposes it is once again up to him to communicate. “I… am not sure,” Byleth says, truthfully. “I never had one of those as a child… or, no, wait.” He frowns, then nods. “No, I do remember being attached to the first sword my father ever gave me.” The memory is vague, but he can still remember how the sword handle had fit perfectly in his hands, still small and smooth back then, if a little scarred from playing with knives not so different from the ones Ciel uses now.

To his confusion, Aveline’s father stares at him, clears his throat, says, “Well, then,” and returns back to the topic of wildlife, at which point Byleth decides to tune him out once more.

There are no bandits or thieves who intercept their carriage — or any of the four other carriages, for that matter — along the way. Most of the trip is spent making halfhearted conversation with Aveline’s father and coaxing Aveline herself to stop leaning too far out the window and hitting her head against low-hanging branches. Ciel falls asleep on Byleth’s shoulder. The sun travels from just above the horizon to joining its place up with the clouds.

“It looks like we’re here,” Jeritza notes, when the carriage comes to a rough stop, jostling Ciel enough for them to wake. He sends a look Byleth’s way, which Byleth returns with a nod — their initial plans may have been… simplified quite a bit, but they have to be on their guard now more than ever. “Ciel, knives?”

Ciel holds up two of their knives in proud silence.

Jeritza nods. “Aveline, lance?”

“Here, Teacher!” Aveline jabs the lance in the air as she hops out of the carriage and onto the grass. Lush forest and greenery surrounds them, and up ahead other students, parents, and teachers are disembarking from their carriages to walk along the dirt path leading to Teutates as well. “Are we gonna train even here too?”

“Preferably not. It’s simply for your protection.”

“Hmm. Protection.” Aveline turns to face Ciel, grinning excitably. “If anything happens, you can trust me, Ciel! I’ll definitely protect you!”

Ciel looks embarrassed. “Don’t need protecting.”

“Hmm,” Aveline says again, pouting slightly. “I guess that’s true. But I don’t like being protected either. We both need someone to protect…”

Her father laughs softly under his breath. It looks like he doesn’t really see the danger in his six-year-old daughter wielding a lance, Byleth notes, unlike last time. He’s wisened up. “It must be nice to have such problems like that. But, ah, I heard you two are from Adrestia?” he asks, turning to face Byleth and Jeritza as they all file out of the carriage. “Is it quite normal to start training children so early? Chivalry and knighthood is valued and all here in Faerghus, but the more common age is around nine or ten years old. We wanted Aveline to follow in our footsteps, but she seems to think merchant work is boring…”

Byleth blinks, catching Jeritza looking similarly confused beside him. Ciel must have let slip that Jeritza comes from the Empire, and Aveline must have mentioned as such to her parents in one of her stories. At least this man doesn’t seem to hold it against them — even now enmity remains between Faerghus and Adrestia, especially among older folk who lived through the wars and still believe Dimitri should have been the rightful ruler of Faerghus if not all of Fódlan.

“Perhaps we are a bit unusual,” Jeritza says, slowly. Byleth’s glad he’s finally talking, considering this is a conversation Byleth would be able to contribute little to. He doesn’t come from Adrestia, not really, but then he doesn’t really come from Faerghus or Leicester either. “We were both… involved in the war. It seems only natural to start training at a young age rather than leave them vulnerable to anything in the future.”

“Ah, the _war,_ ” Aveline’s father says, as if it’s something that happened centuries ago rather than just a few years. He nods in what looks like understanding. “I see. That does make sense… but… well, I must admit I am not exactly Emperor Edelgard’s staunchest supporter, but she seems to be doing a decent job at this whole leader thing. You think another war might start soon?”

“You do not?” Jeritza asks, lowly, and Byleth tenses at the edge he can hear in the other man’s voice. This is starting to approach dangerous territory, and it looks like Aveline’s father notices too, because he hurriedly shakes his head, spouts off some random words, and moves on to some other bland topic of conversation.

 _Another war…_ Byleth sighs and tries not to let the idea bother him too much. He used to think fighting was all he was good for, but now he knows there are more things, _better_ things, to life than just killing and killing. He’s had enough of wars for the rest of his life and then some.

“…and up ahead,” a voice near the front of the line of children and parents says, “we have extremely rare plants only found in this area! The water here in Teutates is purer and cleaner than that in the rest of the rivers in Fódlan, see, so the plants die when they’re planted anywhere else. Oh, don’t touch them, please! They’re actually quite poisonous. The nutrients in the water mixed with the plants’ natural toxins can kill a grown man in seconds…”

“That’s the war veteran the school invited,” Aveline’s father points out, sounding relieved. “Personally I was expecting a man, but, well, of course, you know, equality and all that. My wife’s a huge fan of her novels, you see.”

“Novels?” Byleth frowns. A war veteran turned novelist. It sounds relaxing. Unfortunate that his own education hardly covered the art of literature and storytelling outside of basic reading and writing…

Wait a minute. Novels. War veteran. Plants.

“Excuse me — us a moment,” Byleth says, glancing over at Jeritza to see the light of realization dawning on his face as well. “Aveline, take care of Ciel for a moment, will you?”

Aveline salutes. “Yes, Teacher!”

Byleth just barely manages a smile in response before Jeritza drags him over to the front of the line, pushing and shoving his way through the other parents and carefully stepping over small children. “Did you get all that?” the war veteran is asking, her small frame crouched down beside a clump of peculiar-looking plants. Around her, a gaggle of students scribbling furiously on their notepads nod. “Good, good! It’s hard to get information on these when they’re so rare, you know. I wish I could take some home for the garden…”

She blinks, pauses, as if her natural instincts have kicked in to tell her something is amiss. “Ah… let’s move on, then,” she says, ushering the children along the path, before turning around and, as Byleth had half-expected, letting out a little shriek. “ _Eek!_ P-P-Professors!?”

“Hello, Bernadetta,” Byleth greets. “It’s been a long time.”

At first glance, it looks like Bernadetta hasn’t changed in the last few years at all — her hair is the same strange short-long cut Byleth has never understood, and she looks more or less the same, although her skin is much less pale and she looks like she’s getting much more sleep. She even has, lo and behold, The Inexhaustible slung over her back, along with a quiver of arrows. But a closer look and deeper thinking tells him the years after the war have been kind to her: her novels, a garden at home, how she spoke freely and confidently in front of both children and parents about her passion, the same way she had once confided in Byleth about her dream to fill up a book on all the plants across Fódlan and beyond.

“So this is where you two were hiding in this whole time?” Bernadetta gasps. The rest of the students and parents thankfully move along to follow the path without interrupting, save the odd side-glance and curious whisper. “Gosh! I knew Edelgard kept up with you and all, but I never thought it’d be… well… here!”

“In Faerghus?” Jeritza asks.

“Just, you know, here!” Bernadetta repeats. Byleth supposes she hasn’t improved in the art of speaking _that_ much. “But it’s so nice to see you again, Professors… ah, no! It’s not that anymore, is it? It’s Byleth and Jeritza. Hehe, but I can still call you Professor as a cute nickname, right?”

“If you like,” Byleth says, smiling; it’s not as if most of his previous students don’t do the same. Jeritza looks embarrassed, like he can’t fathom being called _cute_ by someone nearly half his height. “I never expected to see you here either. The school invited you to… teach children about plants?”

Bernadetta rubs the back of her neck. “Well… yeah, more or less! I wrote an essay about the environment here in Teutates and how it’s so different from the rest of Fódlan, and it was _supposed_ to be a secret, but Edelgard saw it while I was out and convinced me to publish it and… it got super popular, for some reason…”

Super popular, and yet neither Byleth nor Jeritza had heard of it until now. Is that how closed off they are from the rest of the continent…?

“Anyway, what are you two doing here?” Bernadetta presses. They’re nearly at the back of the line now, with a different teacher droning on about some vaguely educational thing at the front. “They didn’t tell me they’d be asking other war veterans to come along. Are you last-minute bodyguards or something? Thinking about it, there _are_ some recent reports of thieves in the area, aren’t there?”

“Oh, um…” Byleth nudges Jeritza’s side and shoots him a glance, doing his best to convey, “I’ve talked enough, it’s your turn” through it.

Jeritza sighs, but doesn’t argue. “We live together.”

Bernadetta seems to freeze mid-step. “E… Eh?”

“We live together. In the nearby village,” Jeritza adds, as if that will clarify the real question in Bernadetta’s head.

Ciel chooses that moment to catch up with them and tug on Byleth’s pants leg. “Yes,” he says, already crouching down to be eye-level with them on habit, momentarily forgetting Bernadetta is still there. Ciel proudly presents him with the most disgusting-looking bug Byleth has ever seen in his life, cupped in their two small palms. “That’s nice, Ciel,” he says, with just slightly more inflection than earlier.

“With this one,” Jeritza further adds, gesturing towards Ciel.

Bernadetta looks close to expiring. “W… Wi… With a… a child?”

Aveline chooses _that_ moment to hurry up from behind Ciel. “It’s a stick bug!” she proudly declares. Her lance is strapped to her back, not unlike how Jeritza has slung his scythe behind his back as well, and it bounces dangerously with each step she takes.

“ _Two_ children!?” Bernadetta screeches.

“No, no, just the one,” Jeritza sighs. “The loud girl is their best friend. Unfortunately,” he mutters in an undertone, thankfully just right before Aveline’s father arrives. “I am surprised Edelgard never informed you about us. I thought it was common knowledge.”

“No, it definitely wasn’t!” Bernadetta exclaims, shaking her head. “B-But, um, I’m… glad you two… are together now. With a child, even! Now that I think about it, you do suit each other well. Both quiet and shy and tall and, uh, good at fighting… wait, what’s that you have there?”

She bends down to look closer at the bug in Ciel’s hands, but Ciel immediately moves away, taking several small steps back to hide behind Byleth’s legs. “Ah! I’m sorry! Did I scare you?” Bernadetta winces. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend of your dads!”

Ciel only stares up at her, expression inscrutable but eyes narrowed in suspicion. The bug twitches in their hands.

“Ooh. You’re the author of the book my mom reads all the time,” Aveline says, adopting a thoughtful look. “Ciel, I think she’s okay. The book was all about falling in love and stuff like that. No one who writes that can be stronger than you.”

“That… Was that supposed to be reassuring?” Jeritza mumbles.

Byleth has the same doubts, but apparently it _was,_ because Ciel sighs and takes a few cautious steps back towards Bernadetta, just close enough to let her see the strange bug in their hands. “Oh… thank you,” Bernadetta whispers, sounding genuinely touched. “You know, I’m a bit like you still. Strangers can be scary, right? But you can trust me, I promise.”

Ciel opens their mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Bug…” is all they offer, but it’s easy to tell that it had taken them a great effort.

“Right! The bug.” Bernadetta looks it over carefully, apparently uncaring that a teacher has come jogging over to usher her back to the rest of the students. “Hm… it’s not a stick bug, but it does look a lot like one, doesn’t it?” she says, to Aveline’s nod. “It’s a close relative, though this kind is only found around here in Teutates as well, and in a very small region in Dagda, I believe. They’re not poisonous at all, but when threatened their bites can hurt quite a bit. They have the capability to be parasites as well, although as long as you’re careful with it there shouldn’t be a problem.”

Ciel looks thoughtful. They don’t appear to be in pain, and it doesn’t look like the bug feels threatened either, though it’s not like Byleth’s an expert at understanding the deep, complex emotions of insects. “Friend,” Ciel eventually says.

Bernadetta brightens. “What a nice kid! They do sort of look like you, Jeritza. And the blank stare… that’s so Professor!”

“But we are not…” Jeritza trails off, then shrugs. “I see.”

Bernadetta can’t stay with them for long — she rushes back to the front of the tottering procession of children before the teachers run their throats hoarse calling after her, leaving just the five of them left again. Aveline’s father seems to be observing the different plants and small animals on his own, something Byleth is thankful for — the man means well, that much he can tell, but he’d really rather not have to deal with more conversation right now. Ciel and Aveline trail behind them at a leisurely pace, Aveline grabbing a branch off the ground to poke and point at things while Ciel keeps a gentle, careful hold on the bug in their hands.

…No bandits, no thieves. This field trip is disconcertingly peaceful, but Byleth refuses to let the atmosphere sway him, and he keeps an even tighter grip on the handle of his sword. Any moment now and they might step into Saint Indech’s territory and be assaulted by an army of illusory soldiers. “How much further?”

“To the temple? Another ten minutes, in my estimation,” Jeritza responds, gaze fixed straight ahead. He’d spent hours memorizing and calculating the route the school would take from the path to Teutates.

Byleth nods. Ten minutes. More than enough time to prepare himself for the inevitable fight. It’s been a while since he’s been in a life-or-death situation, and Saint Indech likely wouldn’t take being woken up twice within such a short span of time — for him, anyway — nicely. He’ll have to be at his best for this. Perhaps he should sneak off somewhere now to warm up a bit…

“Ciel, Aveline,” he calls in advance, checking to make sure Aveline’s father, a little up ahead, is still engrossed in examining the leaf of some strange plant. “Whatever you do, make absolutely sure you stay near or behind us. Under no circumstances should you run off on your… own…” He frowns. “Ciel? …Aveline?”

Jeritza freezes in place beside him, then whirls around. Byleth follows not a second later, and feels his blood run cold.

“Ciel!” he shouts, drawing his sword — he had heard nothing, felt nothing, sensed nothing. What sort of man, of bandit or thief or kidnapper, could move so silently, could be so unnoticeable to even his and Jeritza’s heightened senses? “Ciel, Aveline, where did you two—?”

“Calm, Byleth,” Jeritza manages, and Byleth wants to snap at him that _this isn’t something he can calm down from so easily,_ but bites the words back at the last second when he hears the tremor in Jeritza’s voice. His entire body is trembling, but whether from rage or fear or the self-control he needs to keep the Death Knight suppressed within him, Byleth can only guess. “They — They could not have gone far. The surrounding forest would be difficult to leave in just under a few minutes.”

Byleth inhales, exhales, reminds himself Ciel has a knife and Aveline a lance — and yet, what can two children do against what may be a dangerous criminal? He should have been paying more attention, he should have heard something, he should have insisted the two walk ahead of them — “I’ll go left,” he says, willing his voice not to shake.

Jeritza is already turning right. With a nod, he’s off, and Byleth prepares himself to do the same—

“Teachers!” a reassuringly familiar voice shouts. Byleth skids against the grass and twigs, while nearby, Jeritza audibly crashes into a tree. Aveline is running out from a gap between trees, Ciel tagging along behind her. “Teachers, you gotta look at this!” she gasps out, and Byleth notices with a hint of alarm that she’s clutching her lance in one hand. “We saw this _biiiig_ raccoon and followed it a little, but then, but then…!”

“Are you hurt?” Byleth bends down to examine them, but aside from a few stray leaves tangled in Ciel’s hair and a splash of mud on Aveline’s cheek, they look unharmed. Jeritza hurries over unsteadily, rubbing his face where he must have hit it against the tree. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Big man…” Ciel frowns. The bug is gone, and they’re anxiously twisting their scarf around their neck. “Tried to hurt Ave.”

“No, no, he tried to hurt Ciel first!”

“Fine, both of us,” Ciel relents. They shudder and grab onto the hem of Jeritza’s coat when he arrives, arms automatically moving to gather Ciel into his arms. “Over there.”

“Over… where?” Jeritza slowly asks.

Aveline gestures for them to follow her, and she scampers back where they had come from, off the path; Byleth once again checks to make sure they can find their way back to the rest before following, Jeritza and Ciel just a step behind. They brush through some trees, but it isn’t too far before Aveline comes to a stop before something on the ground. “Here,” she whispers, uncharacteristically silent for once. “Umm… we’re not gonna get arrested or anything, are we? It wasn’t our fault!”

“Ave didn’t do anything,” Ciel mutters. “Was me.”

“Ciel, shh!”

“It’s true,” Ciel insists, brow furrowing. “I did it. But he started it anyway.”

“And this ‘he’ is…” Byleth bends down, confirming his suspicions — the something on the ground isn’t a something at all, but a some _one_ instead, a middle-aged man dressed in drab, brown clothes that would make it easy to blend in with the surroundings. It’s unexpectedly gruesome: one of his eyes is gone, and the wound is still obviously fresh, blood running down his face in rivulets.

Jeritza is beside him in an instant, Ciel staring blankly at the body. “Puncture wound,” he notes, similarly emotionless, if a bit stiff, as he points at the man’s thigh. It’s not too deep, but it had drawn a bit of blood as well, staining his pants leg. “Aveline’s lance. It’s just about the right height and depth. But his eye…”

“It was friend,” Ciel says. It takes Byleth a very long moment to realize they mean the bug from before. “His bite.”

“Bite…?” And then Byleth remembers Bernadetta’s earlier words: _They’re not poisonous at all, but when threatened their bites can hurt quite a bit._ If he’s guessing right, then… she had definitely done a good job at downplaying how hard a small bug with no visible mouth can bite. “I see,” he says, turning to face Ciel. “So… I suppose this man attacked you? And you threw the bug in his face?”

Ciel nods. They don’t seem at all guilty or pained about taking a life, but then again Byleth remembers how they hadn’t visibly reacted either when Jeritza had been stabbed in the chest and bleeding out, back before Ciel had officially been their child.

“We were following the raccoon, right?” Aveline says, flapping her hands and nearly smacking Jeritza with her lance. “So we lost it when it ran too fast, and we were gonna go back, but then that guy shows up outta nowhere and tried to grab us! An’ I got him right here!” She points at, as expected, the shallow wound on the man’s thigh. “He let go of Ciel, and Ciel threw their bug right in his face! And it _went inside him!_ ”

Jeritza stares at the hole on the man’s face where his eye had once been. “Inside his eye?” At Aveline’s nod, he sighs and shakes his head. “Bernadetta mentioned its… parasitic nature, didn’t she?”

“Right,” Byleth replies, weakly. Now that he looks at this man, he’s starting to wonder if he should have been more worried about Ciel carting around a parasitic bug with an impressive bite. “Er… Ciel, next time, maybe don’t make friends with dangerous insects?”

“But he saved us,” Ciel mumbles, pouting.

“M-More importantly — what do we do about this guy?” Aveline asks. “If Dad finds out about this, he’s never gonna let me touch a lance again, even if we didn’t do anything wrong!”

Jeritza hums thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s a problem.”

Byleth nods. “As far as anyone who might stumble upon him is concerned, he died from the bug, not from anything else.” Aveline’s attack would hardly have killed him, after all. “He grabbed you two, you said? Then he had this coming to him.”

“He, uh… did?” Aveline blinks.

“He was a bad person. You did well, both of you.” Byleth tries to usher the two children back to the direction of the dirt path — hopefully the rest of the class hasn’t gone too far ahead already — but while Aveline hurries to follow, turning away from the body, Ciel seems rooted in place, staring at the man, unblinking. “Ciel,” Byleth says, softly. Do they feel guilty after all? “You…”

“I don’t feel bad,” they say, their voice sharp. “He tried to hurt Ave. It’s his own fault. And anyway,” Ciel adds, looking up at them, “you… Byle and Jeri kill people too. If — If someone tries to hurt me, or Ave, or Byle or Jeri… I’ll hurt them too.”

Jeritza looks down at them, his hand resting atop their shoulder. “That is true,” he says, shooting Byleth an unsure glance. “But we do not enjoy killing. And I want you to value life more than we do, Ciel.”

“I…” Ciel swallows, looks away. They’ve stopped fiddling with their scarf, but now they have their hands stuffed in the pockets of their coat, where Byleth knows they keep their knives. “I don’t understand…”

“It’s alright. It…” Byleth sighs. “Why don’t we just head back? And stay close this time. Please just tell us if you want to hunt down more raccoons.”

“I’m good at hunting,” Ciel says, a hint of pride returning to their voice.

Jeritza dips down for the briefest of moments to press a kiss to the crown of Ciel’s head, and despite the past several minutes the sight reassures Byleth all the same. “I know. Let’s go.”

No one seems to have noticed anything amiss when they return to the group, and Aveline smoothly lies that everything is alright to her father, who takes her at her word without question; Byleth can’t help but wonder if that’s responsible parenting, then reluctantly supposes he simply trusts his daughter that much. But then he pales — how close are they to the temple now? To Saint Indech’s territory? Would they be signing themselves up for death if they take just a few steps further from this rock or that tree? Even Jeritza looks thrown off, looking around and clearly trying to estimate how far along they are on the path.

“I’m sure you’ve all at least heard of dishes cooked with Teutates pikes and loaches before, right?” Bernadetta is asking, to a chorus of children agreeing. “Right! And for those who’ve eaten some, you sometimes feel stronger afterwards, don’t you? That’s because these fish are good for your body! Do you want to try a bit of fishing, everyone?”

More screaming children. Byleth dearly hopes this isn’t enough to wake Saint Indech from his slumber, wherever the temple may be. “Isn’t it odd?” Jeritza murmurs beside him. “Bernadetta was there too when we faced… that beast, wasn’t she? Yet she doesn’t seem concerned in the least.”

“It’s possible we’re a safe ways away from the temple, then,” Byleth realizes, allowing himself a relieved sigh at the thought. Bernadetta has always disliked unnecessary violence, although she can be unexpectedly formidable — albeit far from intimidating — when she wants to be, especially as a sniper. “Perhaps she’s aware of this and has been leading the group further away from it? It sounds like something she might do—”

“And here,” Bernadetta says, a gaggle of children trailing behind her, “is the entrance to the ancient temple honoring Saint Indech.”

It’s Byleth’s turn to walk into a tree. “B-B— _Bernadetta?_ ”

Jeritza is already reaching behind himself to grab hold of his scythe. “I can’t say I didn’t expect this,” he grumbles. “Byleth, prepare yourself. We did not spend the last week planning and preparing just to fail now.”

“You’re right,” Byleth manages, unsheathing his own sword. “Ciel, Aveline, behind us,” he orders, making sure the two children are actually with them this time as they scramble to hurry behind the two of them, though they both look utterly bewildered. This is it. Byleth inhales and exhales deeply, clearing his mind. Any second now the soldiers will materialize from thin air as they did before, and the thick fog will settle around them, obscuring their vision and rendering the unsuspecting helpless against the illusory warriors…

“If you’re worried about the possible dangers, don’t be!” Bernadetta cheerfully announces. “We’ll be staying just outside, close enough that you can see a little in — and we’ll even have lunch there, it’s got a nice view with a bit of the lake! But we won’t actually be entering. It’s sacred, after all, and it’s disrespectful to the saint here.”

Byleth feels his jaw drop of its own accord.

“Umm… Teacher?” Aveline tugs at Byleth’s coat. “Why are we hiding again?”

“We… are not going in?” Jeritza repeats, sounding similarly dumbfounded.

Somehow Bernadetta hears him, because she turns to look his way and flashes him a bright smile. “No, of course not! Come on, Jeritza, don’t you remember the _last_ time we went in here? Which was also the first time?” She shivers, the expression on her face looking terribly familiar. “I-It was the absolute worst, everyone. Saint Indech was… very displeased with us. But in any case, he won’t mind if we just take a look around. It’s also good manners to leave offerings at the doorway before we leave, so can everyone set aside a bit of their lunch to give Saint Indech?”

“Why can’t we go in?” one student whines. “I wanna see Saint Indech too!”

“Me too! Me too!”

“Ahh, well…” Bernadetta sighs, crossing her arms and staring wistfully at the direction of the temple. She seems to be thinking the decision over, and Jeritza pauses in the act of returning his scythe to its holster at his back, when she nods. “I know. How about I tell you all the story of what happened when my old friends and I went in before while we walk?”

Bernadetta was already a good storyteller during both their academy days and the war, but Byleth can tell she’s only gotten better, because by the time they arrive at the entrance to the temple, the once-noisy crowd of children have gone silent in collective fear. “And _that,_ ” Bernadetta says, “is why we won’t be going inside. We can say hello to Saint Indech from right here. He really doesn’t want others invading his own personal space, and we understand that, don’t we?”

“We understand,” the children chorus, their voices carrying an audible haunted undertone.

Of course, Aveline instead says, “That is _so cool,_ ” perfectly undeterred. “Teachers, when I’m older and stronger, can I—”

“No,” Byleth and Jeritza say at once. There is most certainly no need to hear the rest of what Aveline has to say.

Thinking about it now, it makes sense they would send Bernadetta here — she must have traveled all over Fódlan and beyond for the flora and fauna, and Lake Teutates had doubtless been one of her destinations, considering her heritage. Byleth observes her from afar as they settle down for lunch, how only bits of her former shyness and nervousness remain in her as she tells the children (and parents) more stories of her past encounter with Saint Indech and how she had obtained The Inexhaustible after, well, an exhausting fight. The light in her eyes is something Byleth can only remember having seen in her once during the war, when she had been telling him of her wish to fill up a whole book on different plants and flowers.

The war is over. Somehow he had forgotten that it is over for others, too. How are the rest of his former students doing? Does Linhardt still engross himself in his research to not care about anything else anymore, or do Caspar and Ashe visit him from time to time to remind him to take care of himself? How is it like for Bernadetta to live in the Imperial Palace with Edelgard, Hubert, Ferdinand, and her other advisors? It must be good, if she’s improved this much with her public speaking. How are Petra and Claude doing as the new rulers of their respective countries? Where could Seteth and Flayn be now, after they left Rhea’s side?

“Jeritza.” Byleth shuffles closer to his side. Ciel and Aveline are eating the lunches they had packed together, with Ciel trying to steal some of Aveline’s chicken while the latter is talking about something-or-other. “Do you ever wonder how the others are doing?”

The reply comes quick. “Not often, no. But I know they are doing fine, and that is enough for me.”

“Hm… I should have known you’d say something like that,” Byleth says, sighing slightly, but unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. That’s right. Neither he nor Jeritza have ever been the type to catch up with old friends or write letters everyday about mundane matters, but that hardly means they don’t care for the others. If something were wrong, or if any of them had a problem, Byleth knows he wouldn’t even need to ask for Jeritza’s help. “Seeing Bernadetta now just had me thinking,” he explains, when Jeritza shoots him a silent, questioning glance.

“It has been a while since we’ve heard from Edelgard and the rest,” Jeritza allows. “Though if this is a ploy to get me to write to them, I must say I decline. Personally, I am not letting that orange-haired one around Ciel.”

Byleth almost chokes on his water. “Ferdinand? What’s wrong with him?”

“Too loud.”

“So you’d… what, trust Hubert over him?”

“He would respect Ciel’s boundaries,” Jeritza reasons, although his face twists into a disgusted expression as if just thinking about Hubert makes him feel ill. Byleth can’t resist a low laugh — from what few stories Edelgard has told him of those childhood years Jeritza had spent living in the Imperial Palace, it looks like Hubert and Jeritza never got along… conventionally, at least. “Although… on second thought, Ciel might be interested in learning dark magic next. Best keep everyone away from them.”

“So it’s just the two of us allowed,” Byleth reasons, leaning just slightly against Jeritza’s shoulder.

Jeritza moves, but not away from him like he may have in the past, only shifting around to make him more comfortable. “Yes,” he says, softly, turning to give Byleth the smallest of smiles. “Just us.”

He’s obviously not talking about Ciel’s permitted influences anymore. Byleth casts a glance around them, but even before he can murmur that no one is paying attention to them, Jeritza is already reaching behind his head to bring him in for a kiss — Byleth, despite himself, melts into it just the same as all their other kisses, never mind that they’re in public, surrounded by six-year-old children and with their old student sitting just a few feet away. It’s the thrill of being _seen_ that rushes through Byleth as he presses in closer, tilts his head to slide their lips further together, and Jeritza doesn’t stop him — quite the opposite, really, with his grip on Byleth’s hair tightening until the mild sting is starting to feel dangerously good…

“Ahhh! Ewww!”

Byleth sighs against Jeritza’s mouth, allowing himself that one last second before drawing fully back and giving Aveline a tired look. Really, he can’t say he hadn’t been expecting that, but couldn’t it have happened a little later? “Oh, dear,” is all he offers. “Pretend you didn’t see anything, Aveline.”

Jeritza surreptitiously licks his lips and gives Byleth a long, telling look, but clears his throat and reluctantly pulls away from him as well. “That is right. You saw nothing, girl.”

“Yeah, right! I saw everything just now!” Aveline exclaims, waving her arms above her head. “Ciel, are Teachers always this gross in the house!?”

Ciel just nods, looking far more interested in a nearby flower and the butterfly perched on its petals than Aveline’s current crisis.

“Euuurgh.” Aveline shudders, grabbing her lunch box and moving to sit on Ciel’s other side, as if even being near Byleth and Jeritza will lead to her catching something. “Boys are _gross._ I don’t wanna fall in love with a boy, but Dad’s always bugging me to get married to someone nice. Can’t I just have a best girl friend and live with her?”

Byleth looks at Jeritza. Jeritza looks at Byleth.

“What? What’s with that look?” Aveline demands. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna start suckin’ face again!”

“But you wouldn’t mind if it were two girls instead?” Byleth very carefully asks, though he’s not entirely successful at keeping the smile out of his voice. Jeritza coughs in a terrible attempt to mask his laugh.

Aveline frowns, crosses her arms, and seems to be doing her utmost best to think it over. “I… I mean… I guess,” she finally allows. “Only ‘cause girls are less gross, though!”

“But I’m not a girl,” Ciel says, sounding curious.

“Oh. It’s okay, Ciel, you’re not gross.”

“But I’m not a boy either,” Ciel says, sounding confused.

“Oh…” Aveline frowns harder. “Um… you’re right… this is hard. Well… Ciel is Ciel,” she decides. “It doesn’t really matter. Hey, the butterfly’s on your head!”

Byleth watches the two run around and chase after the frantically fluttering butterfly for a few moments before turning back to Jeritza. “It must be nice to be young,” he muses. “No thoughts. No gender. Just butterflies.”

“And girls kissing,” Jeritza adds, drawing a soft laugh from Byleth. “Frankly I’m not surprised. She’s always struck me as the type to scorn men. Well, boys for now.”

“Yeah? She sort of…” Byleth sighs. “Reminds me of both Caspar and Leonie.”

“…Ah. The girl who adored your father, right?” Jeritza asks, his tone cautious. Byleth appreciates the effort, though there’s really no need — it’s been a while since he’s thought about her, after all. “What happened to her? I’m afraid I have no recollection of her fate.”

“She was with Judith, during the battle at the Bridge of Myrddin. I didn’t want to kill her.” And Byleth hadn’t — it had been someone else who bloodied their hands for him, an arrow plunged straight into her chest and through her heart. He had stared down at her body, afterwards, and thought about all the times he and Father and Leonie had trained together, and how she was always doing her best to catch up with them and learn the same techniques they used. She would never be able to learn anything now.

But it isn’t just Leonie. It’s Dimitri, Dedue, Sylvain, Felix, Ingrid — it’s Hilda, Lorenz, Raphael, Ignatz. It’s the Edelgard with brown hair, the Hubert with unscarred hands, the Linhardt who still flinched at blood, the Sothis who danced with him. All the children who grew up too fast. All the soldiers who should have been students. All the lives he took.

“Did we do the right thing, Jeritza?” Byleth murmurs. “Right now… this world… I know it’s what we fought so long and so hard for. But there are so many people…”

Jeritza is quiet, and Byleth doesn’t expect an answer — it’s enough, for now, to just let the question linger in the air. Around them, the parents start getting up to help their children clean and pack their things back up for the rest of the field trip. Ciel giggles when Aveline falls on her face while running back to their bags, then hurriedly pretends to have kept a poker face when Aveline picks herself back up.

“I can’t answer that, love,” Jeritza says, and the unexpected endearment, along with the pure, genuine sincerity in his voice, nearly has Byleth’s heart soaring right out of his chest. “And I believe it is a bit too late to be asking that question, besides.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Byleth smiles. “Then let me ask another one. Are we doing the right thing now?”

“Teachers!” Aveline shouts, scrubbing mud off her face and only continuing to smear it everywhere. “Hurry up! We’re going already! Ciel, get your dads to listen or they’ll get lost in the forest and then they’ll probably do gross things again.”

Ciel waves at them. “Byle, Jeri. Let’s go.”

“Just a few months ago they refused to speak,” Byleth mumbles. The emotions in his voice would be impossible to pinpoint one by one. “Now I just know they’re lazy to say our full names.”

“You see?” Jeritza takes his hand, and the warmth of his palm is almost as welcome as the warmth of his lips from earlier. “There’s your answer.”

Fortunately enough, the rest of the field trip goes by well. After lunch, teachers and parents teach the children how to fish, and the worst thing that happens is one student falling in the river and scaring all the fish away. They trek a little further, just enough to see Rhodos Coast from the fringes of the small mountain range around Teutates, and they take a short break in the area for snacks and rest before heading back down to the carriages for the trip home. There are no more bandits, thieves, or kidnappers, and Ciel finds no more parasitic bugs (or, at least, they don’t let Byleth or Jeritza see it).

Bernadetta joins them when they return, exchanging her spot in the other carriage with Aveline and her father, to Ciel’s disappointment. “I still can’t believe you two are really here!” she says, eyes sparkling. She’d spoken so much earlier about plants and insects and the environment that Byleth genuinely can’t believe she still has words in her. “When did you move to the village?”

“It’s been… two years now, I believe,” Jeritza says. “It will be three on the next Horsebow Moon.”

He remembers? This is honestly new information to Byleth, although he doesn’t say that embarrassing fact aloud. It doesn’t feel like it’s been two years at all, really. “Ah, that’s right,” he mumbles, memories flickering at the edges of his mind. “That… We started living together around halfway through the war with the Agarthans, didn’t we?”

Not for the first time, Byleth is glad Aveline’s father isn’t here — he would doubtless have asked who those were, considering the masses only know them as strange dark mages, if they know of them at all. Edelgard hadn’t wanted to make the war against them public knowledge, and Byleth can’t say he disagrees, if only because just the thought of explaining what and who the Agarthans are gives him a headache already.

Jeritza nods, thankfully diverting the conversation. “It was around the same time Sister set up her orphanage in the area as well. Visiting her from the village was more convenient than visiting her all the way from the Imperial Palace.”

“But, but, I didn’t know about this at all!” Bernadetta exclaims. “Surely I couldn’t have missed a wedding?”

“A _wedding?_ ” Byleth sputters.

“Well, you’re living together…” Bernadetta frowns, then lights up in realization. “Oh, you’re not married! That’s it, right? I guess I _could_ have missed a wedding if there was no wedding in the first place… but then how could I have missed childbirth!?”

Jeritza dips his head in what looks like an attempt to hide his reddening cheeks. “We adopted Ciel.”

“ _Oh._ That makes sense too,” Bernadetta allows, sounding rather disappointed, as if she’d missed something greater than a wedding and childbirth. “Still, though, does this mean no one else knows about you two? I mean, Edelgard keeps up with just about everyone, but she never updates us on how you’re doing! I think she would have been over the moon to hear about Ciel.”

“We haven’t really been keeping up with anyone, no,” Byleth admits. It’s… just not particularly the sort of thing he can see either of them doing, probably evident from how the only other person they’ve had regular contact with over the past two years is Mercedes. “But I am glad to see you again, Bernadetta. You’ve grown a lot.”

Bernadetta colors and laughs nervously. “You sound just like yourself, Professor! I mean, Byleth… I mean, well, same thing. Hehe. Oh, but! There was something else I wanted to tell you.” She glances around the carriage, but since she’d essentially kicked Aveline’s father out, there’s no one else but Ciel to listen to whatever confidential information it looks like she’s about to share. “Actually, this is just something I overheard a few nights ago at the palace, but it looks like Edelgard and Hubert have found some Agarthans who escaped from Shambhala.”

Now _this_ is news. Byleth leans forward, catching Jeritza making a jerky, aborted motion for his scythe. “Agarthans?”

Bernadetta nods. “There are more than we thought, but not too many that they might become a huge threat again. They’ve split up in small groups and spread out across Fódlan. Taking them on in Shambhala all at once was hard enough, but now it’s harder to both keep their existence a secret and defeat them…”

“Hmph.” Jeritza leans back against his seat. Beside him, Ciel stares up at him curiously. “If they want our help, they need only provide the necessary information.”

“They _were_ thinking of asking some of the old members of the Strike Force,” Bernadetta says. “I know they’ve already written to Petra and Claude, just in case any Agarthans were thinking of crossing from Fódlan to Brigid or Almyra. And they mentioned Linhardt, since he’s apparently been researching bunches on dark magic now…”

The rest of the trip back goes by quickly enough, with Bernadetta sharing more stories about how it’s been at the Imperial Palace — Ferdinand and Hubert still have the occasional argument about whether coffee or tea is better, and under Bernadetta’s ( _very_ ) patient tutoring, Edelgard has been getting better at gardening, little by little. She tells Ciel more about bugs and plants and cats and archery and just about every topic Ciel can think of, until Ciel eventually nods off on Jeritza’s shoulder. By the time they return to the village, the sun is already beginning to sink below the horizon, and Byleth is starting to feel the exhaustion from all the day’s events, even if they hadn’t even stepped foot inside the temple he and Jeritza had been dreading all week.

“They even give homework for this,” Ciel grumbles, rubbing at their eyes on the walk back home. Aveline had bid them goodbye earlier, somehow still doing so with her usual energy. “School’s the worst.”

Are children supposed to like or dislike classes? Byleth can’t say much, even as a former professor, because his students had just been that difficult to understand. But Jeritza seems to agree, if the way he snorts in amusement is any indication. “I regret to inform you that it only gets worse from here.”

“Really?” Ciel pouts.

“I am afraid I cannot help with composing essays. But you will, at least, never be behind in swordsmanship.”

“But I’m still too small.” Ciel sighs. “What if I don’t get any taller?”

“I’m sure you will,” Byleth says, glancing over at Jeritza and giving him a quick shake of the head. There’s no use for a 193cm fool like him to open his mouth on a matter like this. “I used to be a bit short when I was your age too. And even if you don’t…” Byleth ruffles their already-messy hair. “It doesn’t matter. You’re perfect as is.”

“…Byle is just saying that,” Ciel huffs, but they seem a bit pleased.

Dinner is a quick affair, and Ciel flops in bed right after a mumbled goodnight. Byleth wishes he could get to sleep as easily as that, but now he can’t stop thinking about Bernadetta’s words from earlier. This isn’t the sort of thing he can so casually bring up in a letter either, with the possibility of it being intercepted by the subject of the message themselves…

“Byleth.”

“Ah, yes—” Byleth coughs, clears his throat. Jeritza is stepping out of their bathroom, toweling his damp hair off. The sight is familiar enough to be reassuring, and Byleth sighs against the cool skin of Jeritza’s shoulder when he sits beside him on the edge of the bed. “I was just thinking. About what Bernadetta told us earlier.”

“I thought so.” Jeritza stares at him for a long while, then exhales heavily and turns away. “I could take them on by myself, if you want.”

“Wait — what?” Out of all the things Jeritza could have said, _that_ was certainly not one Byleth had been expecting, or even hoping for. “What are you talking about? There’s no way I’d let you go on your own, even if either of us wanted that.”

Jeritza’s brow furrows. “But you do not enjoy killing.”

“No,” Byleth admits, softly — he hadn’t thought Jeritza would know — “but it is nothing new either. And I would gladly kill if it is for Ciel’s sake.” Before he might have said _for the sake of this continent,_ or _for the future of Fódlan,_ but perhaps the years of peacetime have changed his perspective a bit, because all he is sure of now is that this continent, this Fódlan, can go take care of its own sake, of its own future: he has his own world to take care of, too, even if that world only reaches as far as their garden fence.

Fighting, killing — it’s nothing new. He has taken lives as both mercenary and soldier and he will continue to take them, but only as many as he needs to keep both Ciel and Jeritza safe.

“It looks like you were deep in thought,” Jeritza says, already moving to lie down on the bed. “Did you figure something out?”

“Must you always be so perceptive?”

“That may be the first time anyone has ever asked that of me.”

“Must you always be so perceptive when it comes to me?” Byleth amends, smiling as he shifts to lay down beside Jeritza. The softness of the sheets is welcome after riding in the hard carriage and walking around all day… and he realizes this is the sort of thing his past self did everyday. He’s getting soft from domestic life, isn’t he.

Jeritza shrugs, but he looks rather pleased with himself. Once again, Byleth wonders how he can be so similar to Ciel. “Hmm,” is all he offers. “Goodnight. Don’t trouble yourself with those thoughts. We will take care of them when it comes to it.”

It honestly doesn’t sound like something Jeritza would have said in the past, too — Byleth can perfectly imagine him jumping out of the carriage and sprinting all the way to the Imperial Palace the moment the words left Bernadetta’s mouth. But the most he had done earlier was tense up, and now he only stares back at Byleth when Byleth gives him an inquisitive look. “Yes?”

“You’ve changed,” Byleth says. “Not that this doesn’t already go without saying. But I… like it.”

“People change. I thought I would never would, admittedly.” Jeritza looks away. “That I would enjoy fighting and killing for the rest of my life, and that nothing else would sate the desires within me. But…” He trails off, then shakes his head and shifts closer until he’s pressed his face against Byleth’s shoulder. “Well,” Jeritza murmurs, just barely audible now, “you know me.”

“I do,” Byleth mumbles back, sounding so fond it’s almost embarrassing.

“You understand me.”

“I do.”

Jeritza closes his eyes. “If I had never met you…”

Byleth waits, but nothing comes afterwards, and it takes him a moment to realize Jeritza’s breathing has deepened and evened out. He sighs and drapes one arm over the man’s shoulders, propping his own chin atop soft blonde hair. “If I had never met you,” Byleth repeats to himself, quietly. Would anyone truly know, truly understand, either of them? Would they have remained alone for the rest of their lives, searching for something they themselves were not aware of, and would Ciel have remained in the orphanage forever too, hiding away from prospective parents and growing up alone?

Questions without answers, questions that don’t need answers. Byleth combs his hand through Jeritza’s hair, gently untangling the knots, before closing his eyes and letting himself drift to sleep as well.

“Welcome home,” Ciel greets from where they’re sitting on the floor, a knife in their hand, their entire frame clearly poised to attack. “There’s a weird man in the house.”

Byleth stares at the promised weird man seated on the very edge of their threadbare couch, as if he cannot afford to let more than an inch of his behind touch the fabric in fear of catching some rural village disease. “Ah… yes,” Byleth says, very slowly, as he drops the groceries by the entryway, “I see him. Ciel, please put down the knife.”

Ciel does not move.

“Ciel. The knife. Please.”

“Stranger,” they point out, voice hard.

“He’s not a stranger,” Jeritza says, sounding both bored and annoyed at once. He grabs the groceries, stalks past Byleth and Ciel and the other man alike, and heads into the kitchen. “Glad to see you have made yourself at home, Hubert.”

“Indeed,” Hubert responds dryly, staring down at the knife in Ciel’s hands. Its blade glimmers in the afternoon sunlight. “I must say, I’m hardly surprised to find out that you have raised this child to greet strangers via knife rather than with a serving of tea.”

“Ciel is the last person obligated to serve you tea.”

“You are the last person I—”

“Both of you,” Byleth sighs, feeling very much like he’s been transported back in time to one of the tactics meetings in the Imperial Palace. “Ciel, I promise he is not a stranger. He’s a friend. Please put down the knife.”

Ciel sighs and pockets their knife, looking like they’ve just done a great deed for humanity. They give Hubert one last glare as if warning him not to do anything to make them bring the knife out again, then stalk into the kitchen in a manner worryingly similar to that of Jeritza. Hubert coughs into his gloved fist, but Byleth is hardly fooled — he’s seen the other man conceal his laughs in much the same way dozens of times before.

“You probably know why I am here,” Hubert says, once Byleth has prepared the tea, because Jeritza and Ciel only stare at the teabags as if they had personally offended them. “Bernadetta mentioned meeting you when she returned to the palace after her little… educational trip.”

“The Agarthans, then?” Byleth asks.

Hubert nods, his expression darkening even further. “It pains us to say that they have somehow escaped our notice for years before they were discovered again — one group was practicing dark magic in a large house in a village and we received reports from one of the Imperial soldiers stationed there that they saw strange things at night. A bit of investigating and interrogating later…” He shrugs. “Well, it was a bit like being back in the war again, certainly.”

Byleth winces, staring down at the floor. He’d been present for only a scant few of Hubert’s interrogation sessions in the past, and none of them had been enjoyable… for the prisoner’s part, that is. Jeritza, on the other hand, only looks more thoughtful than anything. “Shall we get straight to the point?”

“I thought you might say that.” Hubert glances at the windows, then flicks his wrist; the curtains slide shut without a noise. Ciel’s eyes widen, but they remain stubbornly silent at Jeritza’s side. “We found a group. Fhirdiad. According to our sources, they’re the largest group among the others we’ve found, and possibly the strongest as well.”

“Hm.” Jeritza looks down as if this isn’t worth his time. “How many?”

“Estimate of twelve. Probably more.”

“When do you need this done?”

“By the end of the moon, at the latest. I understand the schedule is tight, but we will provide ample compensation, and… we’ve cause to believe they’re performing experiments, based on what little we heard while attempting spywork.” Hubert sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Even now I fail to live up to expectations.”

“Er… don’t say that,” Byleth offers. Fhirdiad… it’s a bit far, but it’s doable, with the second week of the moon having just started. If they prepare quickly and make the trip at the end of the week, they should be able to reach their destination with time to spare for the job. “What do you think, Jeritza?”

Jeritza sits in contemplative silence for a long moment. “Ciel will be alone in the house,” he eventually says. “And I would rather not trouble Aveline’s family for this.”

Somehow, Byleth finds himself looking at Hubert.

“What,” Hubert bites out, looking well aware of what they might be about to ask of him.

“Forget the compensation,” Byleth says. “Instead, could you take in Ciel while we’re out?”

“Wait.” Ciel frowns. “Where are you… Fhirdiad… I can’t come?”

Had the conversation gone too quickly for them to follow? “No, see, we’re going to be doing something dangerous,” Byleth says, doing his best to avoid bearing the full brunt of Ciel’s big pleading eyes. “I know you’ve been in dangerous situations before, but this is completely different. So if it’s alright with you, please stay with Hubert and the rest for now.”

“Would it have killed you to wait for my answer?” Hubert asks, but he already sounds resigned to his fate.

“But…” Ciel’s frown deepens, their grip on the hem of their coat tightening. “But I… you’re leaving me?”

Jeritza places a hand on their shoulder, and it looks like the action is starting to become comfortingly familiar for them, because Ciel’s shaking hands still and they look up at Jeritza. “Not for forever,” he says, softly. “It is only for your own safety. We will be back by the end of the moon, that we can promise you.”

Ciel opens their mouth, looking like they might say how long a time that is, but sighs instead and turns away. “‘Kay,” they eventually mutter, giving Hubert a sullen glare, like this is all his fault.

“It is not so awful in the Imperial Palace,” Jeritza says, giving Byleth a desperate sort of look.

“Right! Bernadetta is there too,” Byleth hurries to add, relieved when Ciel brightens a little at the mention of the woman. It’s been a few weeks since the field trip, but they’ve still been more interested in the plants in the garden since then. “And plenty of our old friends are there too. Edelgard, Ferdinand, Lysithea, Marianne occasionally…”

Ciel blinks. “You’re… friends with the Emperor?”

“They did not _know?_ ” Hubert groans.

“Oh.” Byleth looks at Jeritza, who just shrugs. “It… never came up in conversation?”

After a few more reassurances, Ciel seems properly mollified now, although they still shoot Hubert suspicious glances whenever he speaks. “Very well,” Hubert says, his sigh a long-suffering one. “I suppose I should have expected this. We will take care of your child while you are away for the mission, but please do not expect much. Her Majesty and I are both very busy individuals, as are the rest of those in the palace.”

Byleth shakes his head. “It’s fine, Ciel isn’t particularly difficult. We just want them to be somewhere safe. Is everything settled?”

Hubert nods. “I will be here again at the end of the week. Keep safe.” He gives Ciel a side-glance, which they return with a glare Jeritza would be proud of, then sighs once more before snapping his fingers. He disappears with the flicker of a shadow in what Byleth recognizes as an extremely simplified, and therefore extremely advanced, Warp spell; Ciel’s eyes widen again, this time with a barely-concealed glimmer of awe.

“Are you really leaving?” Ciel immediately asks, grabbing Byleth’s jacket.

“Like we said, not for forever,” Byleth repeats, not sure how many times this makes. Jeritza is already heading to the weapons storeroom, his expression deep in thought, and Byleth can’t say he doesn’t understand — it’s been a while since they’ve had to be this serious about a mission, and it’s been a while since they’ve had to face Agarthans at all. “Much as the experience might be valuable for you, it’s much safer at the palace.”

Ciel pauses at that. “The palace…”

“That’s right. You can just think of it as living like a royal for a little while,” Byleth says, smiling at the thought. It’s what Ciel deserves anyway. “You’ll get to have your own room there too… probably. There’s a big garden, and a big library, and maybe someone can take you out to the opera…”

“Garden…” Ciel tilts their head to the side as if trying to picture it. “Library…”

Byleth sighs. “And don’t worry. We’ll be back before you know it.”

He follows Jeritza into the storeroom, unsurprised to find him bent over a map already. The markers and routes they’d scrawled around the Teutates area are still there, to Byleth’s amusement. “We never even used any of the plans we prepared for the field trip.”

“I know. It is fortunate, and yet I feel almost disappointed,” Jeritza sighs. He points at Fhirdiad on the map, and one look at the huge gap between the Kingdom capital and where they are now makes Byleth’s head ache. “This is going to be beyond difficult. The quickest route would be from Arianrhod to the Tailtean Plains, but even then we would have to travel day and night to make it there by the end of the moon…”

Byleth nods, taking a seat by the table. “Hubert and Lysithea can’t help with Warp spells either. Even their faith magic is tinged with dark, and the Agarthans would pick up on that immediately.” It explains why Hubert’s spywork wasn’t perfect either — the war against the Agarthans had taught them quite a number of things, including their affinity for all spells dark. They’d had to handle their communications completely differently after even the advanced telepathy spell Lysithea constructed was intercepted and broken down by the Agarthans’ technology.

Ciel worms their way atop Byleth’s lap to look at the map, although with it being upside-down from their position, Byleth doubts they can understand much. “Magic?” they ask. When Byleth nods, they fold their arms atop the desk and rest their chin there. “How ‘bout Mercie?”

“My sister is skilled, but not in that area,” Jeritza says, shaking his head. It’s true — while Mercedes’ offensive spells are unexpectedly impressive, she excels best in her healing magic, and her Warp spells are limited to small objects. It made it easy for her to send medicine and supplies around the monastery easier, but Byleth can’t see it being of use here.

He sighs and taps his cheek, staring out the window. If only there were some other skilled mage, proficient in all areas of magic, but without the hint of darkness the Agarthans would detect…

_Oh._

“I have an idea,” Byleth says, looking up to see Jeritza’s confused blink. “I should be able to take care of travel — _should be,_ it’s just a thought. But we’ll have to be well-prepared… moving on, do we still have those coats that were charmed against dark magic? I know Marianne made some for us during the war.”

They prepare a little slower and calmer this time — cleaning dusty weapons, retrieving past equipment, reviewing dark magic spells the Agarthans used against them most. Somehow the motions are familiar, like shaking out old muscle memory, and even the concern that they aren’t as good as they were two years ago is but a vague thought at the back of Byleth’s head as he cooks dinner, among other things. Ciel seems more inclined to help too, running around and offering both of them various weapons they find interesting, most of which are just their own knives.

“No, you have to keep those with you when you go to the palace,” Jeritza tells them, gently but firmly pushing Ciel’s outstretched arms back to themselves. Ciel stares down at the knife in their palms, looking disappointed. “I trust the people Edelgard chooses to keep in there, but just in case. Besides, you can’t take this as an opportunity to forget your training.”

“I won’t!” Ciel seems offended Jeritza would even think that, and for good reason — so far they haven’t forgotten to practice with their knives every morning.

“Good,” Jeritza says, ruffling their hair, and Ciel huffs proudly.

They pack clothes, concoctions, rations. They empty the bags of cat food the night before the day of departure. Ciel shuffles awkwardly in front of their room until Byleth eventually asks if they want to sleep together with them for tonight instead, and then Ciel is curled up comfortably between the two of them on the bed with a content smile. “Don’t take too long,” they mumble, tugging at Jeritza’s hair.

Jeritza manages a nod. “Trust no one there either. If anyone touches you?”

“Knife.”

“Very good.”

“Jeritza, they’re going to end up chopping someone’s hand off,” Byleth sighs. He’s fairly sure their old friends still have their reflexes intact and can move faster than a small child, but he dearly hopes Ciel doesn’t hack off a poor soldier’s arm. “If anyone threatens you, then you bring out the knife, alright?”

Ciel looks put-out, but nods. “Fine. But if you’re late…” They let their words trail off as an unsettling threat.

It’s more cramped than Byleth’s grown accustomed to, but he hardly minds the extra warmth, though it certainly makes getting up the next morning harder than if Ciel hadn’t been there. Hubert arrives early, looking like he’s been standing outside since the sun came up, and the shadows under his one visible eye are somehow darker and heavier than they had been just less than a week ago. “Have you prepared?”

Byleth nods. Ciel, despite how they rub sleepily at their eyes with one hand, tightens their grip on his fingers with their other. “We’ve one more request.”

“Yes?”

“Do you mind warping us around the edge of the Oghma Mountains?”

Hubert stares at them for a long moment. “That’s… quite far from Fhirdiad, I must say. Are you going to ask help from who I think you are about to ask help from?” Without waiting for an answer, he turns to face Jeritza, who looks away and avoids his gaze. “And you agreed to this?”

“We certainly can’t use your magic, no,” Jeritza grumbles.

Hubert sighs. “Well… do what you must. But be wary of the time limit. We’re almost completely certain the group you’re after is conducting illegal experiments, the sort I had to withhold information of to Her Majesty lest she go after them herself.” He looks down at Ciel, takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “Come along now. We’ve prepared you a room in the Imperial Palace.”

Ciel gives Byleth and Jeritza a long, worried look, but eventually moves to stand next to Hubert, though they refrain from holding on to _his_ hand. “K… Keep safe,” they say, mirroring Hubert’s words from his last visit.

Byleth smiles. “For you, always.”

Hubert waves his hand, and Byleth closes his eyes and prepares himself for the dizzy, sickening sensation of falling through space that a Warp spell always gives him — but Hubert must have been downplaying his achievements in magic, because when Byleth opens his eyes, blinking a few stars out of his vision, he and Jeritza are already staring out at the wilderness.

Sunshine leaks out from a familiar mountain range in the horizon. Wind ruffles Byleth’s hair, along with the blades of grass and the heads of flowers around them, the latter still damp with morning dew. Birdsong flits in and out of the trees.

“He can warp us this far away with no problem?” Byleth can’t help but exclaim.

Jeritza grunts. “It is not _that_ far. But never mind that.” He points in the distance, and Byleth lets out a small _huh_ at what he can see before them. “It looks like he really did know… and that he’s been here before.”

Byleth sighs. “Right. Er, I can do the talking for this one.” It’s a bit of a gamble to visit so early in the morning like this, because either the person they’re looking for is dead asleep or, very unfortunately, wide awake. He picks his way through the grass and flowers, Jeritza following behind him with their bags slung over his shoulders, and peers in one of the windows of the quaint, if terribly-painted, cottage they arrive at the doorstep of. Nothing but darkness inside, until Byleth realizes, at the weak spark he feels when he presses a finger against the glass, that a thin barrier of some sort of concealment magic is all over the place.

He manages a weak smile. At the very least, they’re definitely in the right place. He raps his knuckles against the wood of the door, making sure it’s loud enough to be audible, and calls, “Linhardt?”

For a very long moment, there is no answer. Byleth hesitantly knocks again after a while, catching Jeritza sighing and placing their bags down on the grass beside him, when he hears it — rapid footsteps scrambling along the floor, coming closer to the doorway. Byleth takes a wide step back just in time for the door to swing open, narrowly avoiding crashing into his face. “G-Good morning! Are you here for the professor?”

It takes Byleth a second to realize that no, a disembodied voice is not speaking to him: he just has to look down. “The… professor?” he repeats.

The child — he can’t be more than eight years old — nods. “Professor told me to expect you. You, ah, you set an appointment or… or such, right? With the — the letter, and everything? You will be meeting him today for an important matter?”

What sort of child talks like this? Byleth glances at Jeritza, but Jeritza only shrugs at him as if to say, “This was your idea, and you said you’d do the talking,” which, damn, Byleth can’t exactly go back on his word on that now. He sighs and gives the child a quick, assessing glance: he’s dressed in too-big, baggy clothing, with short, wavy blonde hair and big green eyes framed by a pair of crooked square-rimmed glasses. What’s a kid like him doing in Linhardt’s house…?

Byleth shakes his head. “Yes, we set an appointment. Could you let us in?” He hadn’t thought the letter he wrote to Linhardt just this week — also known as the letter Linhardt hadn’t even deigned to reply to — would be considered an appointment, but if that’s what the child would like to call it, why not.

He nods and darts back into the house, leaving the door open for them, which seems like enough of an invitation. Byleth steps inside, squinting in the darkness — it’s a complete mess, various items and objects scattered around, cluttering up the tables and floors and just about every available surface in the house. Most of them are books, unsurprisingly, along with papers and quills and other odds and ends that Byleth can’t immediately recognize. Jeritza follows a step behind, wrinkling his nose at the mess.

“We weren’t — were not expecting you so early,” the boy says, busying himself in one side of the house that must be the kitchen, based off the vague outline of a counter and sink. “Please, ah, make yourselves at home — oh, hold on, I-I’ll clean the couch for you—”

He drops a tray of clattering teacups on the nearby desk, then hurries to the couch to gather up all the books that had been left atop it, rushing off to dump the stack on a groaning bookshelf before running back to the desk and lifting the pot of tea with shaky hands. “Very sorry about the mess,” he says, dipping his head in what looks like embarrassment. “I-If you could please give me some, um, time, I can — can clean this up, but, um, Professor is still… busy, so, um…”

“It’s fine,” Byleth reassures, a bit glad when the boy’s shoulders sag in relief. “It’s no problem. I understand we arrived rather early, after all.”

“Thank you for the tea,” Jeritza chips in, although he hasn’t touched his cup at all.

The boy sniffs. “Y-You’re very welcome! If — If you do not mind, I shall… do my best to wake Professor up!” And he’s off again, rocketing up the stairs to where Byleth assumes Linhardt’s room must be. They have a second floor in here? The cottage hadn’t looked that big from the outside…

“I was… not aware Hevring had an heir,” Jeritza slowly says. He finally gives his tea a tentative sip, then sets the cup back down on the saucer. “Hm. Not sweet enough.”

“Not all tea is meant to be…” Byleth sighs and gives up. “Anyway, neither did I, but I doubt the boy is his heir. What sort of child calls their own parent ‘Professor?’”

“Ciel calls us by our names,” Jeritza points out.

“That…” Byleth can’t deny it. “That’s true…” But he hadn’t thought Linhardt the type to have a child. It doesn’t look like there’s anyone else here either considering how the boy had been running around trying to do everything, unless there’s another heavy sleeper in the house. “He doesn’t act anything like Linhardt, though.”

“I imagine any sane person would actively try not to be like that man,” Jeritza says evenly, giving the house a tired look. Byleth stifles a laugh — he hadn’t expected Jeritza to value neatness that much, but then again he supposes Linhardt is on the extreme end of the spectrum between cleanliness and messiness. After having visited his dorm room more than a few times during their academy days to deliver notes from the lectures Linhardt missed, Byleth can safely say this house is actually a bit of an improvement. At the very least, he has more space to make a mess in.

It takes a few more minutes before they hear faint thuds from the stairs, and then the boy from earlier comes hurrying down, looking terribly flustered as he ducks into the kitchen once more. Byleth hears Linhardt’s yawn before he sees him — he trudges down the stairs, gives Byleth and Jeritza a tired look, then shakes his head and heads over to drape himself on the couch opposite them, visibly unconcerned about still being in pajamas. “This _mission_ of yours,” he sighs, “better be extremely important to warrant me being up at this ridiculous hour.”

“So you did read the letter.”

“Indeed I did, Byleth. I didn’t feel the need to write a response since I knew you two would come here anyway.” Linhardt sighs again, watching as Byleth stands up and deposits two bags atop the desk between them. “Ah, yes, the promised payment. Congratulations on the child, by the by.”

Jeritza frowns. “You… are aware?”

“Ah, I was right?”

Jeritza turns to face Byleth with a look on his face that clearly states he is exactly one wrong word away from strangling Linhardt. Byleth clears his throat. “Thank you for the… congratulations,” he says, stiffly. “I should extend the same to you, unless we’re assuming wrong?”

The boy chooses that moment to return from the kitchen, this time with four plates of bacon and eggs, albeit with a strange blue shine to them. “Thank you for your patience,” he squeaks out, placing the dishes on the table (after sweeping books and papers out of the way). He makes a complicated gesture with his hands that Byleth can’t follow no matter how hard he squints, and the blue shine on the food disappears, replaced by a sudden burst of warmth and the delicious aroma of bacon drifting in the room. “Ah! Professor, look, it worked!”

“Mm, I see that.” Linhardt slowly shifts into a proper sitting position, blinking dizzily, and stares down at the food. He doesn’t even lift a finger, but something sparks around the plates anyway, though it doesn’t touch the food Byleth is already eyeing. “Ah, yes, you’ve improved. Last time was still a bit chilly. You two,” he says, looking at Byleth and Jeritza, “eat before it gets cold.”

“What… was that spell?” Byleth asks, taking one of the plates. Jeritza follows afterwards, watching Byleth the whole while as if planning on using his reaction as a factor in his decision to eat. “It _was_ a spell, right?”

The boy nods so quickly, Byleth’s surprised he doesn’t get a headache. “Yes, yes! I devised it myself. The idea is to preserve food and dishes like these with a very weak version of the Fimbulvetr spell for a period of time, and then replacing it with a Fire spell the _very_ instant you lift the initial magic. It’s useful, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

“Ah, er… yes,” Byleth allows, looking down at the food. If that’s the case, then just how long ago were these dishes made? They still look and smell good, though, and Linhardt’s already eating. “But this is a spell that has no practical application in battle.”

Unexpectedly enough, the boy simply huffs and turns away, crossing his arms over his chest. The displeased air about him reminds Byleth very much of Linhardt. “Battle,” he mutters. “Hmph. Who cares about that? Magic wasn’t made for battle. Professor says we should use our magic for good and to learn more about it above all else. Why’s everyone just say the same thing when they see this…”

“Calm down,” Linhardt says, poking at the food with his fork. To Byleth, he says, “It’s perfectly fine, you know. You came all the way out here, so you might as well eat.”

“Uh. Right.” Byleth chances a glance back at the boy, but he’s stubbornly avoiding everyone’s gazes and scuffing his feet on the floor. Trust Linhardt to apparently have taken in some eccentric child as his apprentice. He takes a bite and is wholly unsurprised to find the food perfectly edible, and honestly much better than whatever either he or Jeritza could possibly make — had the child made these? He can’t imagine Linhardt, taste tester extraordinaire, could have done it. “It’s great,” he says, trying to catch the boy’s eye again. “Thank you.”

The boy colors and shuffles over to stand behind the couch Linhardt’s seated on. “Thanks… I mean, thank you,” he mumbles, fumbling with his hands.

Linhardt sets his plate down and gives them a long look. He hasn’t changed much in the past few years — his hair has grown a little longer, past his shoulders to just above his elbows, and he’s less thin and pale than he was during the war, but that seems to be about it. “The details in your letter were vague,” he eventually says. He glances at the windows and door, blinking slowly, and Byleth catches sparks reflected on the glass panes for a second before they’re gone. Most likely checking the concealment magic. “I assume it’s about the Agarthans? Lysithea spoke to me about them just the other day.”

“Then you likely know what we are here for,” Jeritza says. He had been picking at his food just earlier, but now the plate is clean. The boy clearly notices, because he can’t seem to stop staring and smiling at it.

“Hmm. I am a man of my word, of course, and I shall gladly return this favor,” Linhardt says, eyeing the bags of pastries and baked treats Byleth had deposited atop the desk, “but it is also an ungodly hour of the morning, and if I am not well-rested you cannot expect me to Warp you as far as I am able. Do you mind giving me until this afternoon, at least? Surely you can wait that long.”

It’s a little later than Byleth had been hoping, but considering Linhardt’s doing this for free, he can’t exactly argue. “Of course,” he says. “We can… go on some errands while we wait. Do you, er, need any help cleaning or something?”

“I’m not volunteering,” Jeritza mutters.

“We shouldn’t — should not trouble guests with chores!” the boy pipes up, shaking his head. “As I said, please make yourselves at home! I’ll — I will clean the professor’s things up as usual. Professor, please head back to bed and—”

Linhardt waves a hand at him. “No need. I’m awake now, just not particularly energized. Besides, I have to write back to Lysithea before she sends a cursed letter my way for not responding… then I have to continue that spell I was researching last night…” He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, then cracks one open to look at the boy. “By the way, have I introduced you yet? This is Byleth and Jeritza. They were my old professors when I was a student.”

“Oh! Very pleased to meet you!” The boy makes to hold out his hand for a handshake, before seemingly remembering himself and performing a hurried, sloppy bow instead, blonde curls flopping in his haste. “I am Valentine! I am the chosen apprentice of the esteemed Professor Hevring!”

“Self-proclaimed,” Linhardt grumbles. “Self-proclaimed apprentice. In truth, he’s just a glorified assistant who insists on cleaning after us and reads my books sometimes.”

The boy — Valentine — doesn’t seem to have heard a word. “You taught the professor when he was at school?” he asks, eyes sparkling in awe. “Amazing! Ah, not that the professor is still inferior to you, of course. But to have known him at a young age! He was a stellar student, I assume?”

Byleth opens his mouth to say, “No, the complete opposite,” before deciding to have pity on the boy. “He was… fine,” he settles. It’s not entirely false, anyway — when Linhardt wasn’t napping or fishing or just outright avoiding homework and responsibilities, his natural intelligence and drive for knowledge led to him achieving the highest marks in the year… although no one was really thinking of grades and exams when the academic year ended.

Valentine looks disappointed. “Just fine?”

“There was quite a lot happening that year,” Linhardt says. “Bandits, dark mages, a Death Knight, a war. Forgive me for not having been more attentive during class. Now will _you_ get some sleep? Why are you even awake?”

“I must always be ready for guests, Professor!”

“Go to sleep.”

“Yes, Professor!” And he races back up the stairs without another glance behind him.

“He’s… a handful,” Byleth observes.

Linhardt takes a long sip of his tea and leans back against the couch. “Glad you’ve noticed,” he says, dryly. “He came from a mining village in Varley, but he’s more interested in magic and developing new spells like the one you just saw. Read one of my research papers and now he’s utterly convinced I’m an actual professor. Children, really… surely I wasn’t that troublesome when I was his age?”

A mining village… it explains why it sounds like he’s trying to mimic Linhardt’s formal way of speech. “And his parents?”

Linhardt pauses, looks away like he had expected this question. Shakes his head.

“…Ah,” Byleth manages, dumbly.

“During the war against the Agarthans, his village was raided by a contingent in the middle of the night,” Linhardt murmurs, tracing the rim of his cup with one slender finger. “He happened to be studying late here with us when it happened. We took care of the Agarthans once we heard, obviously, but… not fast enough for us to have saved anyone. As far as we know he is the only survivor.”

They’re quiet for a moment — Byleth doesn’t know what to say, and Jeritza doesn’t seem keen on speaking. Unexpectedly enough, he opens his mouth first. “So now he lives here with you?”

Linhardt shrugs. “Where else could he have gone? He has no relatives outside the village.”

“In a way, it really is a bit like raising your own child, then,” Byleth says lightly. He can’t imagine Ciel liking Valentine, though, with how talkative he seems to be, but then again they’re best friends with Aveline.

“Honestly,” Linhardt snorts, making a careless gesture with his hand. A ring glimmers on his finger… wait. A ring? “I threw away my entire inheritance and spat in my father’s face because he insisted on me getting married to some noblewoman and continuing the Hevring bloodline. If he knew about us and Crestless little Valentine, I imagine he’d have a stroke.”

Byleth frowns. “Um, Linhardt. You keep saying… ‘us.’ Is there someone else in here? Aside from Valentine?”

Linhardt stares at him, and then stares at Jeritza as if checking to make sure this isn’t a joke. Jeritza, of course, only stares back. “You…” Linhardt coughs and clears his throat, reaching up to massage his temple like he’s already feeling a headache coming on. “You don’t know. You don’t _know?_ ”

“Er… know what?”

Byleth belatedly notices that, while Valentine had brought out four plates of breakfast, only three have been eaten — the fourth is still on the desk and still unexpectedly nice and warm. He figured it would have been for Valentine himself, but…

Thuds resound through the house as someone descends the stairs, hard enough that it feels like the entire place shakes. “Hey, Lin!” a very familiar voice calls. “Sheesh, what’re you doing up so early? Hey, is that breakfast? Don’t mind if I do — oh, holy shit!”

Linhardt doesn’t even look back. He waves a careless hand instead, and a blanket materializes out of thin air and drapes itself across Caspar’s bare shoulders. “Good morning, Cas,” he says, closing his eyes as he casts a Heal spell on his own head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the kudos and comments as usual!! here's chapter 3 ❤

In hindsight, Byleth _supposes_ it was pretty obvious, or at least expected. After the war, they’d all gone their separate ways, and neither Byleth nor Jeritza thought to keep up with the others’ whereabouts. They heard things here and there but never really bothered to find out more and spend time with old friends, aside from Mercedes and the occasional visit to Edelgard, though it was almost always for political matters. After two years of peacetime, even the latter dwindled down to the rare letter. The last Byleth had heard of Linhardt was that he abandoned his title and found himself a nice place in the wilderness, and the last Byleth had heard of Caspar was that he was traveling with Ashe.

“Seriously? You’re _really_ outdated, Professor,” Caspar says, through a mouthful of breakfast — at least that part about him hasn’t changed in the least. A matching ring sparkles on one of his fingers. “We did travel after the war, and it was great, but Ashe had to get back to Gaspard since he’s in charge of the territory there now and he’s still got his younger siblings to worry about, even if they’re pretty grown-up now too. And _really,_ ” he adds, slinging his arm around Linhardt’s shoulders, “how’d you not know? Everyone else figured it out!”

“I… Well… That’s…” Byleth glances at Jeritza, shooting him a desperate sort of look.

Jeritza scratches his neck. “I must admit I was not aware either.”

“Yeah, but you don’t care about anyone aside from Byleth either, man,” Caspar points out. At the way Jeritza flushes but doesn’t argue, it looks like it might be true. “Anyway, we live here now, Lin and Val and I. I help out at the blacksmith’s in Remire Village for gold, and Linny makes all his money from research papers and breakthroughs in magic spells. Give it a few years and Val’s gonna be just like him.”

The pride in his voice is endearing. “Hush,” Linhardt mumbles, but there’s a pleased little blush on his cheeks. “You’re being embarrassing. Don’t you have work today?”

“It’s stupid early, Lin! You think anyone else in the village will even be awake by the time I get there?”

For noble standards, Linhardt is a terrible host — he tells Byleth and Jeritza to do whatever they want, then proceeds to ignore them for the next several hours as he writes back to Lysithea, performs a series of complicated hand gestures to reassess the concealment and protection spells on the house, then retreats into his own personal library on the second floor to continue his research work on whatever he was studying last night. Caspar badgers them with questions about how they’ve been the past few years and immediately suggests letting Ciel and Valentine meet when he hears about the former (which Jeritza firmly shoots down), but eventually bids them goodbye and good luck on their mission when he leaves for work in Remire.

“It’s nice here too, isn’t it?” Byleth wonders aloud. Jeritza is looking through the books on one of the shelves in the living room, running his fingers across the wide array of spines.

“It feels similar to our own place, yes.” Jeritza slides a book out, flips through it, replaces it back on the shelf. “Though their house is significantly larger. A second floor? From the outside, it looked like the roof had a leak.”

“Don’t be rude,” Byleth laughs, although he can’t quite bring himself to deny it. “It’s most likely for the sake of disguises. I’d say it isn’t necessary any longer now that the war’s ended, but I suppose it’s better to be safe…” He looks around again, at the cluttered messes that Valentine is doing his best to clean up, and at the stairs leading to the second floor where Linhardt is reading in.

Have they been meeting more of their old friends lately? First Bernadetta, then Hubert, then Linhardt and Caspar. They’ve all been moving on with their lives as well — Bernadetta’s anxiety has improved greatly, along with her confidence in her talents for art and writing, and Hubert’s magic has obviously developed further as well. Linhardt and Caspar have their own little family here, all three of them doing what makes them happiest.

“Home…”

Jeritza turns to face him. “What was that?”

“Nothing. I just…” Byleth shakes his head. “I’m glad you’re alive, Jeritza.”

“That… sounds a bit dark. Of course I am alive.” Jeritza shakes his head. “And I am not about to die on you now just because I said that. This is not some predictable romance novel.”

“You admit to our romance,” Byleth teases, moving closer to him. “But I really do mean it. I’m glad you’re alive. I’m glad we all are, and that we have a chance to live our lives after the war. This… I think it’s the future we fought for.”

Jeritza is quiet before, after a considering glance over at a preoccupied Valentine, bends down for a brief kiss against Byleth’s forehead. “I will not ever grow tired of hearing you tell me you are happy, Byleth.”

“…Ah…” Why are his cheeks growing warm? It’s been two years, for goodness’ sake, at this rate Byleth is going to blush at every little thing Jeritza says. “That… You say this isn’t a predictable romance novel, but turn around and say lines like that…”

“All stories deserve a chance. Even if they are predictable romance novels.”

That afternoon, Linhardt returns back down to them from his library — Byleth had honestly expected him to just look more tired and sleepy than anything, but surprisingly enough he looks awake. “Alright, let’s get this over with,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “Your destination is Fhirdiad, yes? I can get you as far as the general area of the Tailtean Plains, which should save you a great deal of traveling.”

“What’s the—” Valentine coughs. “May I inquire as to the, uh, nature of your mission?”

Jeritza looks amused. “You may. It’s simply official business asked of us by the emperor.”

“Ah, Her Majesty!” Valentine exclaims. “Professor brought me to meet her once! Such a regal lady! But she seems to care little for her proficiency with magic. I hear she swings an axe around instead, but she’s so small. Admirable, but still, when gifted with a talent for magic, surely one must—”

“Right, then,” Linhardt cuts in. “Unlike Hubert, I can’t guarantee the experience will be entirely painless, so brace yourselves. It’s quite a distance, after all, and I have only ever cast a spell of this magnitude a few times. But I can’t say no to your, mm, offer.”

“Right,” Byleth agrees. Linhardt had brought up the pastries he and Jeritza had taken turns baking throughout the week to the library, and Byleth has seen Linhardt burn through dozens of sweet buns without batting an eye before. “Still, thank you again for helping us with this. I know you opted out of the war back then for a reason.”

Linhardt shakes his head, avoiding Valentine’s curious gaze. Byleth blinks — does the boy not know that Linhardt and Caspar used to be in the Strike Force? “Enough talk,” Linhardt says, raising his hands before himself. “Ready?”

“Good luck!” Valentine waves, just before the pure white magic gathers around them and obscures everything.

Linhardt had not been exaggerating — while the distance Hubert had transported them could be traveled within a few days, bringing them all the way to the Tailtean Plains is a massive feat and saves them at least a week and a half. The payoff, unfortunately, is the equally massive headache that assaults Byleth as soon as the spell takes effect, and the dizzying, disorienting feeling of falling through air and space and time, right along with the even worse sensation of what feels like his body falling apart and putting itself back together.

When he finally feels solid ground under his feet again, Byleth stumbles and takes a very heavy seat on the grass with a groan — beside him, Jeritza is leaning against a tree, holding his head in his hands and looking as if he is doing his utmost best to keep himself from being sick. “That was… unpleasant,” Jeritza grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. “This is certainly one of the things I have not missed from the war.”

“Is there anything to miss from the war?” Byleth asks, blinking the spots out of his vision.

“I do sometimes think about the feasts at the Imperial Palace,” Jeritza says, wistfully. Byleth can’t say he doesn’t feel the same.

As promised, they’re smack in the middle of the Tailtean Plains, with fields for farming as far as he can see. Thankfully they’d magically been transported behind a tree, away from any of the nearby farmers’ eyes, and Byleth and Jeritza hurry over to the nearest dirt path to wait for a passing carriage. “We should be able to make it to Fhirdiad within under a week now,” Jeritza says. “I hardly expected that man to actually be capable of this.”

Byleth can’t help a snort. “You’re awful. Linhardt’s intelligent, he really is, it’s just difficult to get him to care about things he’s not interested in.” Speaking of things he’s interested in, though, Byleth really should have expected Caspar being there… and the whole concept of Linhardt and Caspar being, well, Linhardt and Caspar. They’re childhood friends, aren’t they? Even during their academy days, Caspar was usually the only one who could get Linhardt into doing anything, a feat not even Edelgard could achieve.

There’s not much to do while they wait for a carriage, and he finds his thoughts drifting back to the rings on their hands. They must have gotten married, then, or at least exchanged rings. Byleth looks down at his own hands, but they’re obviously bare, as well as Jeritza’s. Of course they are. Their relationship is hardly the most conventional one. But… does Jeritza want that? Byleth doubts it, but at the same time, Jeritza can be surprisingly sentimental when he wants to be. So maybe…

“Byleth.”

“Y-Yes?” Byleth stammers, shaking his head of the thoughts.

Jeritza is staring down at him, brow furrowed in concern. “Are you alright? You looked deep in thought.”

“Oh, I… it’s nothing,” Byleth mutters. He still has Father’s ring, tucked away in a small string pouch in one of their drawers at home — Jeritza’s seen it, of course, as have a handful of other members of the Strike Force during the war, when Byleth had taken to wearing it around his neck on a thin gold chain Ferdinand gave him on his birthday. But… he considers giving the ring to Jeritza and almost shudders from sheer embarrassment. What if Jeritza doesn’t even want it? What if he thinks it’s just an innocent gift? Byleth doesn’t think he’d be able to bear that.

Jeritza frowns and looks like he means to press further, but to Byleth’s relief a carriage comes trundling down the road at that moment. “There,” Byleth says, pointing. “Let’s hurry. The, er, the sooner we get there, the sooner we can finish the job and get back home.”

The carriage brings them as far as the edge of the Tailtean Plains before leaving them to find another carriage to bring them to a tiny, isolated village to stay overnight. The inn is honestly rather overpriced, or perhaps that’s just the innkeeper realizing they’re not locals and charging them more for an extra bit of income, but Jeritza doesn’t mind when he hands over the gold for a one-bed room. The next morning they have the breakfast served by the inn, then pile into another carriage to bring them closer to the bridge that crosses the river separating the Tailtean Plains and Fhirdiad, but being closer to the mountainous region of Conand, there are fewer roads and even fewer carriages willing to take them along the rocky paths, forcing them to walk the rest of the way instead.

It’s been a while since they had to do anything like this, and by ‘a while,’ Byleth mostly means ‘two years.’ While the war against the Immaculate One had been a full-blown one, with armies of soldiers and a great deal of shouting and charging from all sides, the war against the Agarthans had been just as underground as Shambhala was: they almost always traveled solely in groups of twos or threes to maximize stealth and swiftness, and they would have to pay extra to carriages and inns to keep their names from being recorded on the rare occasion they took carriages or stayed at inns at all rather than simply traveling on foot everywhere and sleeping in caves and atop trees to avoid detection entirely.

Now that he thinks about it, Byleth had shared a bedroll with Jeritza a few times during those travels of theirs. Honestly, ‘a few times’ is putting it ridiculously lightly: even when one was up for night watch, the other would lean on their side or lie down with their head on the other’s lap. On the rare occasion someone else would accompany them — usually Hubert, unfortunately — they would either shoot them a dirty look or roll their eyes and pretend not to see anything.

And Byleth _still_ hadn’t picked up on how Jeritza felt for him… and how he felt for Jeritza. Sometimes his own thickness amazes him.

They find a suitable spot near the mountains to stop for the night — the rocky ground is going to ruin their backs, but they’ve slept through worse. “I’ll take first watch,” Byleth offers, not feeling sleepy even though they’ve walked a considerable distance. “Get some sleep. A bit more tomorrow and we should be able to reach Fhirdiad by mid-afternoon.”

“Would it truly be best to strike at night like we planned? Agarthans are always more active then,” Jeritza says. He’s arranged the bedroll and the fire’s already started, but he doesn’t seem inclined to sleep just yet either.

Byleth mulls it over; he hasn’t had to think strategy and tactics like this since the war, and he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy the thrill of an intellectual challenge. “We are both fairly experienced in fighting in the dark, after everything,” he eventually says. “But we can reassess the situation and prepare accordingly once we arrive. Circumstances change, after all.”

“I thought you might say that,” Jeritza sighs. Instead of making himself comfortable in the bedroll, though, he simply moves over to sit beside Byleth and stares out at the wilderness before them. Thick bushes and jagged rock outcrops help hide this spot from any glancing passersby, and the night sky above them shimmers with stars. Byleth briefly wishes Ciel were here — they rarely leave the house for anything other than school, after all — but decides it’s better they never have to experience sleeping on rocky terrain with only a thin bedroll separating their poor back from the ground.

“Will you be keeping me company like old times?” Byleth asks, unable to quite hide his smile.

Jeritza only huffs. He takes one of Byleth’s hands in his own without warning but does nothing else, just holds onto him, and the act is so unbelievably tender that Byleth has the very terrible urge to cry. Then, quietly, he asks, “Do you want a wedding?”

Byleth blanks out. When he comes to, Jeritza is staring at him expectantly, clearly waiting for an answer. “I… ah… uh,” is unfortunately all Byleth can muster.

“Is that a no?” Jeritza doesn’t seem particularly disheartened, just curious.

“I — I don’t know,” Byleth eventually manages. “I mean, I… I’ve thought about it, I suppose, but… it seems like a handful. I don’t know the first thing about weddings aside from the rings, and, er, I suppose Mercedes would be there… or something… and it would probably take place in a church…”

Jeritza frowns. “This… is not good. That is also as far as my knowledge extends on weddings…”

“Oh, wonderful,” Byleth weakly says. “Why? Do you want one?”

Jeritza shrugs. “Well, I am not opposed to it. But it does sound troublesome, and if neither of us have any inkling as to how to go about it, it might just be more stressful than it is worth.” He pauses. “Seeing those two… Caspar and Linhardt… just had me wondering. About how it might be.”

So it hadn’t just been Byleth, then. Hearing this is unexpectedly validating. “We do already live together and have a child,” Byleth says, slowly. “Getting married now would be a bit redundant, all things considered.” He tries imagining how their family names would be handled, and he can’t deny the embarrassing little twist in his stomach when he thinks about _Jeritza Eisner_ or _Byleth von Hrym,_ albeit he has no idea if Jeritza even has rights to the Hrym territory anymore. Or would they go the hyphenated route instead? Eisner-Hrym… Hrym-Eisner… Byleth feels rather like a teenager with their first crush doodling hearts on their homework.

Jeritza coughs, drawing Byleth’s attention back to the present. “We can live without a wedding, then,” he says, “but I… would still like to show you how I feel.”

“You already do,” Byleth says, confused.

“In a more physical manner,” Jeritza amends.

Byleth stares at him. “Are you suggesting we have sex out here in the mountains—”

“ _No,_ ” Jeritza groans, running a hand through his knotted hair. “I mean, I would like to — to — _you know,_ but preferably not out here in the gods damned mountains, Byleth. Are you insane? That is the same as suggesting we go and break our spines in two together in a show of love.”

“It almost sounds rather romantic when you put it that way…”

Jeritza looks like he’s one more stupid sentence away from pulling all his hair out. “Moving on,” he sighs, “I meant — urgh, it’s useless trying to be indirect about it. Byleth. I want to give you a ring.”

For the second time within the past few minutes, Byleth blanks out. “A… A…”

“You need not wear it. It can get in the way of handling weapons, and I understand if jewelry is not… your thing,” Jeritza says, although he can’t hide the trace of disappointment in his voice. “But I do want you to accept it, at least. I have already given you my heart; a physical manifestation of such is but the least I can do.”

“Th…” Byleth has to give himself a few seconds to recollect his thoughts and pull himself together before he can respond. “Why must you always say lines like that…”

“It’s true.”

“I—” Byleth sighs, resting his head atop Jeritza’s shoulder. “Honestly, Jeritza, of course I would accept it, and of course I would wear it. But you must let me give you a ring in return as well — it’s hardly fair if I am only receiving. Just… it’s at home, so give me until then.”

“And I have no idea how I might get mine, so give me until I figure that out as well.”

Jeritza could get him a rubber band and Byleth would wear it on his wrist and treasure it all the same. He hums in acknowledgement and stares out into the night, closing his eyes and breathing deep when a cool breeze blows by to tickle his cheeks. Jeritza shifts beside him, his grip on Byleth’s hand tightening.

Byleth ends up falling asleep that night. So much for first watch.

They wake early the next morning, and though an unexpected rainfall turns the terrain muddy and slows them down, they make it to Fhirdiad just before the sun sets. The plan was to scout out the Agarthans’ base as soon as they arrive, but they wordlessly head to a tavern first — there hadn’t been a place nor time for them to stop on the rain-soaked road to have lunch, after all, and if they eat fast there should still be time to search around for the Agarthans.

Fhirdiad had been one of the first cities to receive support from Edelgard after the war — immediately after defeating the Immaculate One, in fact, Edelgard had gathered what was left of the Imperial army to quell the fires Rhea had set upon the city. Rebuilding the wreckage had felt impossible at first, considering everything that had happened, but looking around them now, the past two years have been kind to the capital city of Faerghus. Construction projects litter the streets still, of course, but it almost looks the same as how Byleth remembers it looking the few times he had visited this place in the past.

“It would not be bad to visit here with Ciel,” Jeritza muses aloud. “They hardly know anything outside of the village. I suppose a big city like this might unsettle them, though…”

“By now, I’m fairly sure someone like Ferdinand has brought them around Enbarr,” Byleth says, smiling at the thought. Ciel would probably find Ferdinand a bit overbearing, but Byleth knows the man means well, and Bernadetta knows Ciel enough to rein Ferdinand in when needed. “But I agree. They probably want some new clothes too… sooner or later they’ll outgrow that winter coat of theirs.”

“If they grow at all.”

“…Jeritza.”

“There is nothing wrong with being short,” Jeritza says, although he can’t seem to meet Byleth’s eyes as he speaks.

“Okay, 193cm,” Byleth mutters.

They find a decent tavern after securing themselves a room in an inn and drying themselves off from the rain — it’s a bit crowded and they have to share their table with a pair of locals, but the food is good and affordable. “Have you heard the rumors?” the man sitting next to Byleth whispers, though his voice is so loud that even with the chatter in the tavern Byleth hears him still. “About those… dark mages, or some such?”

His companion scoffs and shoves a mouthful of food in her mouth. “Oh, please, what’re you whispering for? Everyone in the city knows about it by now!”

Byleth and Jeritza exchange a look before Byleth coughs awkwardly and turns to face them. “Excuse me. Dark mages in the city?”

“See, _someone_ doesn’t know,” the man argues. The woman rolls her eyes and takes another huge bite out of her chicken leg. “There’ve been reports that there are strange people sulking about in one part of the city, and that’s why some soldiers have been showing up to patrol the area. It seems like they never manage to catch them, though.”

The woman swallows and adds, “There’s a big old abandoned manor in one of the nicer parts of town — the family livin’ there died during the battle between Her Majesty and that big old dragon, so it’s all burnt and no one lives there. Lately there’ve been creepy noises comin’ from it. Could be those strange people, could be ghosts… I’ve half a mind to get over there myself and find out, ya know.”

“What? No! You promised you wouldn’t!” the man exclaims. “What if they’re really dark mages? You might be cursed! And what if they’re ghosts? Then… T-Then you might also be cursed!”

“So boring,” the woman grumbles. She raises an eyebrow at the two of them. “Why d’you ask? Interested in checking it out yourselves?”

“Oh, well… we’re just travelers passing by,” Byleth says, when Jeritza already looks disinterested in the conversation now that it’s likely that’s all the information they have. “We’ll be out of here soon, most likely. Thanks for the info, though.”

They finish their meal quickly after that and poke around the city a while — even at night there’s still a persistent hustle and bustle to Fhirdiad, though it at least helps them get around without looking suspicious as they stick to the shadows of alleys, searching around for the supposed abandoned manor. The ‘nicer part of town’ isn’t hard to find, at least: they spot a man dressed in clothes that look more expensive than their entire house and trail him to a neighborhood that looks like it couldn’t possibly have existed before the battle with Rhea here.

“If we lived here,” Jeritza says, after they both give themselves a long moment to stare at the rows of lavish mansions, scenic gardens, and paved roads, “I think I would get sick of it in a week.”

“As if. You lived in the Imperial Palace,” Byleth chides.

“Exactly. I imagine the walls of these houses would be just as constricting as Edelgard’s rules and Hubert’s supervision back then…”

They pick their way along the neighborhood, keeping an eye out for any suspicious figures. It’s late in the evening now, and there are less people out here than compared to the rest of the city — dressed in worn traveling clothes as they are, they stand out even against the perfectly-trimmed bushes in the gardens. Byleth almost starts to wonder if this supposed manor exists at all when, finally, they see it: at the end of the neighborhood is a blackened, half-burnt manor, looking so old and decrepit that it’s a wonder it’s still standing at all.

“Isn’t it strange?” Jeritza murmurs. “Why hasn’t that place been demolished yet? Nobles are terribly bothersome about these matters. I imagine those living closest to that house would not be able to even bear being in its immediate vicinity…”

Byleth tries to think of a possible answer, but something in his peripheral vision catches his eye — a strange light flickers on and off in one of the windows of the manor, followed by a faint voice that Byleth almost certainly wouldn’t have heard if the rest of the neighborhood hadn’t been deathly quiet. The words are indistinct, but it had definitely been a voice.

“Looks like we’re at the right place.” Byleth places a hand on the handle of his sword and nods at Jeritza, who unsheathes his scythe. “Shall we?”

They take the back entrance into the manor, and Byleth’s mildly alarmed at how much harder it’s become to silence his steps — his past self would have scoffed in disdain at him now. Jeritza looks more focused than usual, so at least Byleth isn’t alone in this, though it’s a small comfort. But the inside of the manor is worse than Byleth had expected: creaking floorboards, stairs missing steps, and glass shards from broken windows littering the floor are only a few of what make the place ridiculously difficult to sneak around in quietly.

“The dark magic is heavy in here,” Jeritza murmurs, voice barely louder than a breath. Sometimes Byleth forgets the man had basic training in dark magic as well, with how rarely he ever uses it. “Wait — stop. Do you hear that?”

Byleth frowns. “Hear wh…”

He freezes. For a moment, the house is deathly silent — and then he hears it again. A cry, a sob — and the voice had been unmistakably young. Childlike.

They couldn’t be—

Jeritza says nothing, only rockets up the stairs, abandoning all pretense of stealth, but Byleth can’t blame him — he follows just a step behind, stumbling several times and nearly getting his leg stuck in one of the gaps, but he shakes it off and clambers up the spiraling staircase, following the general direction the cry had come from, until—

All he hears is a muffled shout before Jeritza slices the head clean off a pale-skinned man — undoubtedly an Agarthan, which Byleth finds out when he crouches down to pull the man’s hood off. “He’s alone,” Byleth mutters. “He must have been standing guard. Jeritza, don’t run off,” he hisses, before Jeritza can do exactly that; Jeritza skids to a stop, entire body trembling with what Byleth recognizes as barely-concealed rage. “They almost certainly know we are here now. Stay behind me.” He can’t risk either of them getting injured — wounds from swords, lances, or axes are all mendable with magic, but dark magic has its ways of being near-completely incurable. If Jeritza moves too recklessly…

But once again, Byleth can’t blame him. He swallows and pushes the body aside, then creeps along the long hallway of the second floor, making sure Jeritza stays behind him and watches their rear. He can hear it now: voices, much closer and much more panicked, along with rapid footsteps coming from the right side.

Byleth presses him against the wall and inches out as far as he dares, just enough to distinguish a few words: _intruders, danger, escape._ He huffs at the last one — there will be none of that when they’re here.

He dashes out from behind the wall quick as a blink, glad his speed, at least, hasn’t dulled from peacetime — a small group of Agarthans are there, definitely not as many as Hubert had mentioned, which just means there are more elsewhere. But he pushes that thought aside first; Byleth lunges without bothering to wait for the surprise on their faces to be replaced by anything else, managing to sink his blade in one of the mages before the others scramble to adopt familiar spellcasting positions. Jeritza is right behind him, deflecting one spell with his scythe and striking back at the mage who had attacked — Byleth dives to slash at the arms of one Agarthan who dares to take aim at Jeritza’s back—

Muscle memory takes over from there, and by the end of it there are five fallen men at their feet, their blood pooling and dripping down to the ground floor through the cracks on the floor. Jeritza wipes blood off his cheek with the back of his palm, but he only manages to smear it further across his face; Byleth leans against one of the steadier walls to catch his breath, flicking blood off his sword.

The door behind the Agarthans is ajar. Byleth glances at Jeritza, receives a nod, and steps closer to nudge the door further open with his sword. It creaks noisily open to reveal a room — judging by the size it may have been suited to be a bedroom, but it’s empty and bare of furniture now, the paint on the walls blackened and peeling.

In the darkness, it takes him a moment to see the only thing in the room — a small figure shrouded in shadows in one corner of the room, hunched over and curled in on themselves.

“Fuck,” Jeritza says, which just about sums up Byleth’s emotions himself.

They just about trip over themselves to get to the child — they’re trembling violently, and they flinch away the instant Byleth and Jeritza come too close. “It’s alright,” Byleth reassures, dropping to his knees before the child. “We’re not with the mages. Are you hurt? Can you stand?”

“G…” The child sniffs, presses closer against the wall. “Go… away…”

“We will not harm you,” Jeritza says, approaching cautiously before crouching beside them as well. “Be calm. We mean well. We’ve taken care of the Agarthans.”

“No, no, no,” they whimper, shaking their head. It’s impossible to see anything in the room, and it takes Byleth a second to realize it’s because the single window on one of the walls has been covered by a thick black curtain that sparks when Byleth so much as goes near it. “They’re h-here, still here, they’re gonna — gonna — go away — _go away!_ ”

It happens almost too fast to follow — the child flings their arms out before them, and the stench of something rotting assails Byleth right before a sparking Miasma spell fizzles from their palms. Jeritza moves back just as the magic would have hit him, and the magic hits the wall behind him instead.

The spot it hits turns a scorched black, exactly like the rest of the walls in the room; the stench remains, thick and heavy in the air. But more alarmingly is that, in the brief flash of light the spell had brought forth, Byleth had caught a streak of white on the child’s head.

“We cannot stay here,” Jeritza says, drawing Byleth out of his panicking thoughts. He’s right — they can already hear more footsteps and voices outside, likely the rest of the Agarthans from some other part of the house. “This room has been charmed with entrapment spells. If they close the door, there is no guarantee we will be able to break free. Take the child and run—”

“I am not going anywhere,” Byleth says, firmly, before Jeritza can get any more ideas. Sometimes that head of his really can’t seem to accept that Byleth belongs at his side and nowhere else. “Just get ready to fight.”

Jeritza sighs, but Byleth doesn’t miss the hint of fondness all the same.

They make short work of the Agarthans, with none of them even coming close to Solon’s or Thales’ level of strength, and soon enough the house is quiet once more outside of their heavy breathing. Jeritza kicks the door wide open and Byleth drags a chair over to keep it open before they return, cautiously, to the child’s side once more. They hadn’t moved throughout the fight, only curled up even tighter and stuck close to the wall. “Hey,” Byleth greets, keeping his voice soft and low as he crouches down, careful to keep a respectable distance away. “Everything’s fine now. We took care of the mages. Are you alright?”

The child sniffs. “It’s d-dangerous here. Go away. Leave.”

“Dangerous? Why?”

“The… bad men…” Finally the child lifts their head, just slightly, and though it’s still too dark to make much out, Byleth can see a glimmer of violet in their eyes behind long, uneven bangs. “If they find you, they… they’ll…”

“We took care of them,” Byleth repeats, refraining from gesturing at the bodies scattered around them. Blood is already seeping through the weathered floorboards, and he absently pushes a puddle aside before it can reach the child. “If you want, we can get you out of here. Just hold on tight to us and don’t let go, and we’ll bring you somewhere safe, alright? Where the bad men can’t get you.”

That gets their attention, lifting their head up all the way. “Really?” they breathe. “You promise?”

“Promise.”

Byleth helps the child up on Jeritza’s back before leaving the room — moonlight streams in from the shattered windows, and it’s easier to see now that the child is a boy, a little older than Ciel. What Byleth had previously mistaken as pure white hair turns out to be a shaggy black instead, with streaks of white across the messy strands. “Definitely a human experiment again,” Jeritza murmurs, glaring at the floor as they hurry down the staircase. “I believe they call the process ‘blood reconstruction surgery.’”

“But his hair isn’t fully devoid of pigment, like Edelgard and Lysithea,” Byleth whispers back. There probably isn’t much use trying to keep this quiet, considering the child is right there, but he tries anyway. “Could the experiment have failed, then? Yet…”

He trails off, but the question remains unspoken and loud in the air between them: _How come he isn’t dead yet?_

“Never mind. We will simply have to explain the situation to the rest at the palace once we return,” Jeritza decides. “For now… a room at the inn?”

A bed sounds heavenly right now. “Do you think the staff might ask about the blood?”

“Hmph. What do they care? We simply went hunting.”

They find a relatively cheap inn to stay at for the night, and as soon as they head up to their room Byleth digs out some parchment and quill to write to Hubert informing him of the mission’s results — Agarthans appropriately vanquished, strange child rescued — and has one of the inn’s messenger owls to fly it for him. A letter from Fhirdiad to Enbarr should take a few days, under a week in good weather; at the very least, it should arrive there before Byleth, Jeritza, and now this child will.

“You’re safe now,” Jeritza says, when he sets the boy down on the edge of one of two beds in the room. “You’re at an inn. No mages here. How are you?”

“I-I…” He swallows and looks around, gaze darting from door to window. Byleth suppresses a frown — looking for an escape route already? What had those Agarthans done to him? “Okay… I-I’m okay…”

Jeritza sighs. “Good. Take a shower and get some sleep in this bed. We will talk properly in the morning.”

The boy looks unsure of what to do, but nods and scrambles into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Byleth wonders if he needs help with bathing or anything, but decides it might be better to leave him alone for now and let him gather his bearings. Jeritza moves over to sit on the edge of the other bed, staring up at the ceiling and looking generally exhausted. “I was not expecting a child,” he mutters. “To think even now those fools still have not given up on their experiments…”

“It makes sense this would be the largest group of them, then,” Byleth carefully reasons. “They hardly have any of their previous technology and members compared to some two decades ago. Hubert will likely send someone to clean the place up as well, if he will not be doing it himself.”

Jeritza nods. “At least we finished that quickly. But…”

He trails off, and Byleth sits beside him with a dry laugh. “Are you wondering what we are going to do with the child?” he asks, not even needing another nod from Jeritza to know he’s right. “It shouldn’t be a problem if we leave him with Edelgard and the rest. They’ve taken care of orphaned Argathan children before, as well as some of the other human experiments we found back during the war.” There hadn’t been much of the latter, as when Ashe had picked the lock open on a tightly-guarded door, most of the prisoners inside had already died or were dying, and they could only save so many in time. The ones they did manage to rescue and nurse back to health have returned to their families or reintegrated themselves back into society by now, if Byleth remembers correctly.

Jeritza mulls it over. “That is true. Or perhaps if he has no family, Sister would be willing to take him in as well? That… _is_ her job.”

“In any case, we’ll need to set out by tomorrow if we want to make it back to Enbarr on time,” Byleth says. It’s not like they actually _need_ to return by the end of the month, as they’ve already accomplished their mission, but they _had_ promised Ciel they’d be back by then. Disappointing them is the last thing Byleth wants to do, and he’s sure it’s the same for Jeritza. “We can ask what the boy himself wants to do in the morning, maybe over breakfast.”

“Alright.” Byleth glances over at the bathroom door. He can hear the shower running, and he’s fairly sure there aren’t any windows there, so he doubts the boy has run off on his own. Still, the faulty dark magic from earlier… the white streaks in his hair… the door to his room had even been left ajar despite the entrapment spells, and one mage had evidently been standing guard a few ways away from the room.

Had Byleth and Jeritza possibly caught the Agarthans in the process of experimenting with him when they entered the house? If they had been a few days later, if they hadn’t thought to ask Linhardt for a favor and decided to take the week-long travel from Rowe territory to Fhirdiad instead… would the child…

No, there’s no use thinking about this, not when it didn’t happen. Byleth shakes the thoughts away in time to realize the sound of the shower spray has disappeared, replaced by the slow creak of a door opening. The boy slinks out, sticking to the walls and staring up at them, still clearly on edge. Byleth’s just glad he seems to have taken the shower seriously, since the blood and dirt that had been on him earlier is gone now. “Feeling better?” he asks. “It’s late, so go ahead and get some sleep.”

“I…” The boy sniffs, rubs his nose. “T-Thank… Thank you. Thank you. I… I don’t…”

“It—It’s alright, don’t cry,” Byleth hurries to say, exchanging a frantic look with Jeritza. Ciel doesn’t cry often unless one of them does something idiotic, and even then it’s relatively easy to calm them down—this boy is another matter entirely. Byleth ushers him to the other bed, relieved when he only tears up a bit rather than full-on sobbing. “As long as you’re not hurt…?”

He shakes his head, curling up in a ball atop the bed sheets. “Sorry… I’m sorry…”

“What are you apologizing for?” Jeritza sounds genuinely distressed.

“I-I don’t know…” He shakes his head again, sending droplets of water flying out from his wet hair. It looks even messier now, and Byleth tries to arrange it into some form of order, not unlike how he’s grown used to trying to tame Ciel’s constantly-ruffled hair. “What are you… W-What will you do now?”

Byleth frowns. “Well, the two of us need to get back to Enbarr by tomorrow. You know where that is, right?” At the boy’s nod, he adds, “You can come with us if you like. But do you have anywhere to stay? Family, maybe?”

Another shake of the head. The boy doesn’t look terribly torn up about it, and Byleth has a sinking feeling this child may be one of the many children who had been orphaned by the war and left to fend for himself on the streets — if his assumption is correct, it would certainly make sense as to why he’d been imprisoned by the Agarthans. Those people had done the exact same thing multiple times before, after all — children without attachments or families were much less likely to be looked for.

“Well, you are safe now,” Jeritza says, his brow furrowed; he probably came to the same conclusion. “So do not worry. We can bring you with us back to Enbarr, then leave you under other capable people’s care. Does that sound alright?”

The boy looks unsure, then nods, slowly. Unfamiliar surroundings may unnerve him a bit, Byleth supposes, but then anything must be better than being back with the Agarthans. “Thank you,” he repeats, shyly. “I don’t know… how to repay…”

“Oh, er. Don’t think about that,” Byleth sighs. What sort of child his age worries about repayment already? “Just sleep. We leave tomorrow.”

He gives another nod, then crawls under the blankets, pulling the sheets all the way up to his chin. For some reason, Byleth has a feeling he might get along with Ciel, if only because they both seem averse to speaking — but he also sort of reminds Byleth of someone else…

The next morning, Byleth sneezes himself awake thanks to Jeritza’s hair near his nose — when he gets up, he finds the boy frozen mid-step towards the bathroom, violet eyes big and wide in obvious fear. His hair is damp again, which means he must have taken another shower as soon as he had woken up. “Oh… good morning,” Byleth says, suppressing a yawn and rubbing his nose. Beside him, Jeritza just buries his face further in the crook of Byleth’s shoulder, completely unaware of his hair’s transgressions. “You’re awake already? It’s still early…”

“Ah… ah…” The boy looks like he’d been caught committing a crime or something. “I-I’m sorry…”

Byleth frowns. “Er, no, you don’t need to apologize. Are you hungry?” With great difficulty he pushes himself up into a sitting position, gently nudging Jeritza to rest his head atop the pillow instead. “I can go downstairs with you and get breakfast.”

“Y-You don’t have to… trouble yourself…”

Oh, _now_ Byleth sees who this boy resembles. He and Bernadetta even have the same purple eyes… “Well, I’m hungry too,” he says, unsurprised when the boy visibly brightens. “Shall we? Jeritza will probably like some breakfast in bed too.”

Byleth throws on some proper clothes and heads down to the first floor of the inn with the boy — he never seems to stop moving, always looking around furtively and flinching at every sound, his grip on the hem of Byleth’s shirt nearly tight enough to tear the fabric. But he relaxes once they near the kitchen, the fragrance of freshly-cooked meals drifting out from the door. “Ah, the traveling hunters from yesterday, yes?” a staff member says, bowing in greeting. “Are you here for the breakfast service?”

“Yes, please.” Byleth glances down at the boy. “What do you want to eat?”

“H-Huh?” He blinks over at the variety of dishes arranged on the nearby counter. “Ah, I… I… a-anything is good…”

“Sure there’s nothing you want?” Byleth observes him a little closer, then steps forward and picks out a simple plate of bacon and eggs that the boy’s gaze had lingered on longer than the rest. He supposes it suits a child his age — Ciel’s probably just the odd one out for eating all their vegetables without complaint. “Here. How about this?”

The boy nods rapidly. _As I thought,_ Byleth muses, giving himself a pat on the back as he lets the boy carry his plate while Byleth selects some other dishes for Jeritza and himself. Having the child himself decide is rarely more effective than just observing them a little and then helping push them into what they want most, but he supposes most other adults don’t care enough to study their own children even just a bit. Sometimes, Byleth is honestly glad Edelgard and Hubert — well, mostly Hubert — had taken the initiative to do something about Bernadetta’s father as soon as the war began.

“Do you have a name, by the way?” Byleth thinks to ask, on the way back up the stairs to their room. The boy seems a little less on edge than earlier, a little smile dancing on his face as he stares down at the food. Perhaps… does he consider bacon a luxury or something…

“Oh…” The boy shrugs shyly. “Um… y-yes. But I don’t like it.”

“You don’t?”

“T-The men… the… Agarthons?”

“Agarthans,” Byleth gently corrects. So he’d been listening closer to Byleth’s and Jeritza’s conversations than they’d thought? Well, considering he’s a victim of their experiments, keeping information like this away from him would just be unreasonable anyway. “What about them?”

“They’re the ones who gave it to me.” He scowls, and Byleth blinks, rather taken aback by how dark he looks when he isn’t nervous, like a vicious animal hiding its fangs and claws until the last moment. “So I don’t like it.”

“Is that so…” This is starting to sound eerily familiar. “Then do you want a new one?”

That gives the boy pause. “C… Can I?”

Byleth shrugs. “I know plenty of people who chose their own name, and they’re all the happier for it.”

He beams. “Really? I-I… I’ll think about it!”

The world would be a much better place if all parents just let their children choose their own names, Byleth reflects. He pushes the door to their room open just in time to see Jeritza stirring, his hair a mess and his eyes still bleary with sleep. “Morning,” Byleth greets, setting the breakfast dishes on the bedside dresser — it’s been a while since he’s had pancakes, and he knows Jeritza will take anything sweet. “I was just telling him to choose a name.”

Jeritza raises an eyebrow and seems to comprehend the words for a moment before speaking. “Why am I so very unsurprised? It seems my mere presence inspires children to throw away the shackles of their parents.”

 _Does a name matter that much?_ Byleth almost asks, before almost hitting himself. Of course it does. Jeritza isn’t who he was before, and this boy certainly wouldn’t want to constantly be reminded of the Agarthans every time someone called his name. “Well, we should get going after eating,” Byleth says, looking over at the boy. He’s sitting on the edge of the other bed and digging in the food with gusto, leaving crumbs all over the sheets. “We still have a little under two weeks before the end of the month. I’d hate to disappoint Ciel.”

Jeritza snorts in amusement. “I wonder how they’re liking the Imperial Palace right now. Their room there is surely twice the size of their room in the cottage.”

“That reminds me…” Byleth looks down at his lap, frowning in thought. “Did Edelgard not say her plan is to pass her position down to a rightful successor in the future? Yet I do not think she has found an heir yet, otherwise I’m sure Hubert or Bernadetta would have mentioned it.”

“Mm. She still has plenty of time left on the throne, but I understand.” Jeritza shakes his head. “In any case, we can hardly do much to help her with that outside of hunting down some heir for her to train up. Which… I do not think will happen,” he murmurs, but he sounds unsure all the same. Byleth understands — unconventional methods have always worked best for them, after all, and adopting an heir rather than having a blood-related one would just be one of the many ways Edelgard can further slap those old-fashioned nobles across their faces, even if they’re six feet buried.

Byleth finds a general store to buy some packed meals for on the journey, while Jeritza takes the boy to the market for some better clothes that aren’t torn, ripped, or bloodied; when Byleth meets the other two back up near the streets, the boy has cleaned up so much that Byleth barely recognizes him. “Well now, so you do have some fashion taste,” he teases, glancing up at Jeritza.

Jeritza huffs, blowing a stray strand of hair out of his face. “Are you sure you are not just some barbarian? I could not stand looking at the child’s clothes a second longer.”

The boy himself looks pleased, arms wrapped around his chest like he can’t quite believe he has a new jacket, along with just about everything else Jeritza had probably helped him pick out: a ruffled blouse, long black socks, even a small satchel hanging off his shoulder… “It really suits him,” Byleth says, a bit startled. “You’ve been holding back on me, Jeritza.”

“I have no idea what you mean. On another note,” Jeritza adds, speaking so quickly Byleth almost doesn’t understand him, “I also found this for Ciel — look, I believe it’s called a beret?” He retrieves it from the paper bag in his hands, and Byleth peers at the supposed beret carefully — it just looks like an extra floppy blue hat to him. “It will look nice on them. They’ve mentioned liking the color blue, haven’t they? And they get cold easily. If we want to bring them here someday, they will need to be suitably equipped for the weather. There was also a nice coat…”

Byleth watches as Jeritza pulls out each new article of clothing, rattles off some facts about it and how he thinks it will suit Ciel, then carefully folds it back up before returning it to the bag. When he’s finished, a carriage has already arrived for them at the side of the road, the driver looking up at them in obvious confusion. “Ah… ahem.” Byleth clears his throat. “Let’s head in, shall we?”

The boy is much taller than Ciel, around Aveline’s height, but thankfully the carriage is just the right size for the three of them to fit. Jeritza’s still sorting through the various clothes in the bags, and Byleth is vaguely glad he’d only brought along a bit of gold along with him rather than their entire wallet, else they’d probably have to walk the entire way back to Enbarr and get there by the end of the year rather than the month. “The market in a large city truly is different from that of our village,” Jeritza muses aloud. “We would never find any of these in the market at ours.”

Byleth looks down at a striped scarf on his lap. “You’re right. Maybe if we lived elsewhere…” But he stops there, because frankly he can’t imagine living anywhere else outside of their village — big cities like Fhirdiad and Enbarr would simply be too much noise, and living in the middle of nowhere like Linhardt and Caspar would make buying food and other supplies a hassle. The trip to Mercedes’ orphanage would also be much further than it already is.

Jeritza looks like he’d come to the same conclusion, because he nods despite Byleth not having said much to nod at. “I suppose this was quite the vacation, then.”

“Vacation? We killed at least twelve men.”

The carriage bumps, as if it had run over a rough part of the road, or the driver had faltered in his movements upon hearing Byleth’s not-so-hushed words.

“Ah, that as well,” Jeritza says, just as blithely. “And brought another child along with us. But it does feel a bit like a vacation, does it not? I have never had much opportunity to sightsee when on missions in different parts of this land.” He looks down at the boy sitting beside him, currently toying with something in his hands. “Another time, perhaps…”

Byleth means to respond, but blinks when he catches sight of something glimmering in the boy’s hands. “Did you buy that for him as well?” He can’t quite make out what it is, only that it’s small and shiny.

“Hm?” Jeritza looks down, following Byleth’s gaze, and stares silently long enough that the boy notices, returning Jeritza’s look with one of confusion. “I… do not think so. What is that you have there, boy?”

“I found it a while ago,” he says cheerfully, but quails a little under Byleth’s and Jeritza’s combined stares. “Ah, uh, er… i-it… well, no one was stopping me, s-so…”

“Can I have a look at it?” Byleth asks. “I’ll give it back right away, of course.”

The boy hesitates, but hands the object over with trembling hands. Byleth nearly chokes when he sees it: it’s a gemstone, sparkling the same shade of violet as the boy’s eyes, and about the size of a pebble. Normally Byleth wouldn’t be able to tell a counterfeit from a real gemstone, but before entering the monastery he and Father had been hired to help out a mine for some time, and since then Byleth hasn’t been able to forget the various techniques the workers there had taught him to recognize how a real gemstone looked from a fake. Everything about this one screams real to him — real, and more expensive than any of them here can even dream of affording.

“Kid,” Byleth eventually manages, returning the gemstone back to the boy’s hands, “where exactly did you find this?” _Or rather, from whom did you snatch it off from…?_

The boy fidgets with the gem. “Uh, um, I… at the market, there was a stall… and, um, there was a lot of people, but no one was stopping me when I picked this up… so… I thought it would be alright? I-It’s pretty, isn’t it?” he adds, a nervous little smile on his face.

“Yes, it’s very pretty,” Byleth automatically responds, head still spinning. Jeritza looks at a similar loss for words. Byleth runs some quick calculations in his head — the boy can’t be older than nine years old at most, and if his parents had passed in the war two years ago, then he had been orphaned at seven. Isn’t that old enough to have learned that stealing is commonly regarded as wrong, or…?

No matter how much he tries to think about this, it doesn’t change the fact that they certainly can’t afford to turn the carriage around back to Fhirdiad to return the gemstone, and if Byleth’s being honest, he doesn’t want to take it away from the boy either. “Do you like it?” he cautiously asks.

The boy smiles and nods. “The color looks like my eyes, right?” He fiddles with it a little more, like any regular child who stumbled upon a pretty rock or shell in the beach, if said rock or shell cost a little more than Byleth and Jeritza’s house.

Jeritza nods stiffly. “It… truly does. But you might lose it if you do not keep it somewhere safe, with how small it is,” he says, slowly sounding a little less awkward.

The boy frowns. “You’re right. Um… but where…”

“When we return to the Imperial Palace, I can ask a friend if he has anything to help,” Byleth suggests. Ferdinand probably still has some more of those gold chains from back then, right? “For now, just hold on tight to it… ah, and make sure no one else sees it, alright?”

The boy blinks innocently. “Why not?”

Jeritza sighs. “Well, when someone sees something they want very much…”

At least traveling in this manner is nothing new, although they have an extra member with them — the carriage drops them off at the edge of the Tailtean Plains, and they retrace their steps from back then, crossing the river separating the plains and going about as far as halfway through the fields before the sun begins to set. “We should aim for Garreg Mach for now,” Byleth muses aloud, squinting at their faded map while Jeritza hands a packed meal to the boy for dinner. “If we’re lucky, we might be able to find someone willing to Warp us as far as Fort Merceus, but if not, it shouldn’t be too hard to get the rest of the way to Enbarr from there.”

Jeritza sighs, resting his chin on the edge of his palm. “Can Hubert not make himself useful and Warp us back himself? Surely we’re his responsibility, considering he is the one who hired us…”

“The relationship between you two truly is a curious thing,” Byleth comments mildly, accepting the meal Jeritza passes him. Beside him, the boy is digging in with the same gusto as earlier, and a pang of sympathy hits Byleth in the chest when he realizes the boy, thin and drawn as he looks, must not have been fed particularly well when he had been with the Agarthans — and even before that, when he had been presumably living on the streets.

Jeritza shrugs. “He and Edelgard were once my only companions,” he says, voice lower than usual. “And we are unfortunately similar in age. That was… quite a time.”

“So like childhood friends?”

“I would almost certainly not say friends,” Jeritza says, shuddering as if the very concept disgusts him. Byleth can’t help a soft laugh, but he finds his thoughts wandering — Jeritza so rarely speaks of his childhood, or at least Byleth doesn’t know much about him outside of what happened with him and Baron Bartels. How had he been ten years back? Probably not much different from how he is now, but Byleth wants to know all the same. Maybe when they get back to the Imperial Palace, he should ask Edelgard and Hubert how Jeritza was like as a child; they certainly wouldn’t pass on a chance to embarrass him.

“Still, did you like them?” Byleth asks lowly. He shuffles closer to the small fire in the center of their three-person circle — he isn’t particularly cold, but he’d still like more of the warmth. “I mean, that time in your life… it must have been hard.”

Jeritza is quiet for a moment before slowly nodding. “They were good to me,” he allows, and it’s one of the rare times his voice dips into something softer, more tender. “If not for them, I doubt I would be sitting here right now, after all.” Then he moves, too, pressing up against Byleth’s side. Somehow the warmth from his body feels several times hotter, and better, than the heat from the fire. “But you know the same goes for you.”

“That… uh… ah…”

“You really need to start getting used to this,” Jeritza says, sounding as if he can’t decide between sounding amused or exasperated, and ends up just sounding fond instead.

There aren’t many places to stay for the night in on the Tailtean Plains, with it mostly just being farming fields and a few scattered trees, but thankfully the weather is good and the fire keeps the bugs away. Byleth lets the boy use his bedroll, planning to just switch with Jeritza in their other one between night watches, and although the boy tries to convince them he can sleep on the hard grass for several minutes, he eventually drifts off to sleep as well.

Honestly, even if they had to squeeze in one bedroll, they’ve grown used enough to the tight fit that it feels more comfortable than anything now. Byleth appreciates the boy’s sentiment, though. “Go to sleep,” Byleth says, when he catches Jeritza very much not in the bedroll yet. “It’ll be a long few days of traveling from here again.”

“I am not sleepy,” Jeritza says.

It is such a blatant lie that Byleth nearly hits him. “You were nodding off during the carriage ride earlier. Do you need me to knock you out or something?”

“If you can.” The corners of Jeritza’s lips curl up in a smirk. “But I really am not. It is still fairly early in the evening, is it not? We only stopped traveling because it would be dangerous to move in the dark with a child as compared to just the two of us.”

Byleth sighs. “I suppose.” He watches as Jeritza, once again, ignores the empty bedroll on the other side of the fire and moves to sit beside him instead — somehow he can’t find it in himself to stop him, although that might be because he doubts he’d succeed anyway. “Now what do you think you’re doing?” he asks, lowering his voice even further until he’s just barely audible.

“Oh? Does it look like I am doing something?”

The fire flickers, its red-orange glow reflected in Jeritza’s eyes and turning them a darker blue than their regular pale shade. How many times, exactly, had Byleth seen this same visage back then during the war against the Agarthans? The first time Jeritza drew closer to him than usual Byleth thought nothing of it, but when it kept happening, when some nights all Byleth could feel was the prickling heat on his skin and all he could see was the glow of the fire in those eyes, staring so intently at him…

Even just the memory of all those sleepless nights has his face warming, and he knows very well it isn’t because of the fire. Jeritza draws him into a kiss without any further preamble, and Byleth sighs against his welcome lips — getting comfortable on hard soil and grass is impossible, but at least they can have this, even if they do have to be careful to keep the boy from waking up. Jeritza reaches up to trace the line of his jaw, pushing him to tilt his head and deepen the kiss, and Byleth grips onto Jeritza’s waist for support in return. He whimpers when Jeritza’s teeth scrape against his bottom lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, and Jeritza draws back just enough to whisper, “Quiet,” against his mouth.

“D… Don’t order me around,” Byleth mumbles, now unsure if the heat in his cheeks is from embarrassment or the current situation. He tugs Jeritza back to litter kisses along his throat, using one hand to pull his collar out of the way and taking some satisfaction at the soft, surprised sound Jeritza lets out, eventually morphing into a breathy moan. Briefly Byleth thinks about that bed in the inn room and laments on how they hadn’t even been able to enjoy that one night by themselves.

Then he pauses, draws back, frowns — something feels strange. Jeritza, dazed as he is, only blinks down at Byleth as if wondering why he had stopped and silently asking him to get back to what he was doing. “Jeritza,” Byleth murmurs, so quietly even he can barely hear himself, “there’s… something.”

“Something?” Jeritza shakes his head, his gaze clearing, and scans the surroundings. “I don’t… no. Wait.” The previously-confused expression on his face gives way for one of wariness. “You’re right. There’s someone here.”

 _Someone?_ Damn, Byleth’s instincts really are getting worse — he’d been hoping it had just been a wild animal passing by, but then he hears the unmistakable sound of a footstep again, definitely of someone trying to be quiet but failing with all the grass and scattered twigs on the dark ground. Byleth reluctantly pulls himself away from Jeritza, exchanging a regretful look with him for a moment, then squints into the darkness. Even with the fire he can’t see too far, and he catches Jeritza shouldering their bags to the side. “Kid,” Byleth whispers, “wake up. There’s…”

Then he sees it — the other bedroll is empty too.

Byleth freezes. Somewhere in the darkness he hears something again: not a footstep, this time, but a muffled shout.

He takes off without waiting for Jeritza — he doesn’t need to anyway, because the other man is already running along with him at his side. Thankfully they don’t have to go too far before they find the boy, surrounded by a small trio of men dressed in ruffians’ clothes, but the scene is a bit different from what Byleth had been fearing: instead of being dragged away or kidnapped or something, the boy is clutching onto one of the ruffians’ hands for dear life, shouting so angrily his words are barely even coherent. “Kid!” Byleth calls, more than a little alarmed. “What are you—”

Jeritza doesn’t bother letting Byleth finish. He charges straight ahead and slams the nearest bandit into the ground, hooking the curved blade of his scythe behind the man’s right arm and slicing it clean off. Amidst the man’s pained wails and his companions’ horrified shrieks, Jeritza stands up and gives the other two men a glare. “That was a warning. Let him go.”

“Who, this damn kid?” one of the bandits shouts. He waves his arm in the air, and Byleth watches, feeling dizzy, as the boy remains doggedly holding onto his clenched fist. “ _He’s_ the one who won’t let go, damn it! You want him? Take him! We’re outta here!”

“Wait, boss!” the other one exclaims, raising his voice to be heard over their maimed companion’s groans. “What about the gem? It costs a fortune!”

“ _No!_ ” the boy snarls. “Mine! It’s mine!”

The man he’s holding on to sneers, then looks up to meet Byleth’s eyes. “Alright, hold on now. You don’t really expect us to just let the kid go without anything in return, do you?”

Byleth frowns. “You were the one yelling at us to take him just now.”

“That—shut up!” the man snaps. “Anyway, how’s this sound? You give us the gem and we give you the boy. Fair exchange, eh?”

Byleth’s frown deepens. “That’s not our exchange to make.”

“Wha?”

“He’s right.” Jeritza gives the injured man a kick before returning to Byleth’s side, moonlight gleaming off the bloodstained blade of his scythe. The bandit leader eyes him with far more caution than he’d given Byleth, understandably enough. “The gem doesn’t belong to us. It’s his.”

“…What bullshit is this!?” the leader shouts, flailing his arm even wilder this time, but the boy stubbornly holds on, sinking his fingers into the man’s wrist like an animal digging its claws into prey. “He’s just a kid! You sayin’ you’d rather have the gem and leave this kid with us!?”

“We didn’t say that,” Jeritza grunts, sounding more and more annoyed by the second. “Do you mind leaving us alone, or shall I issue a few more warnings to get the point across?”

The other bandit gulps. “Boss, maybe we should go after all…”

“No, hold on!” the leader shouts, although he’s trembling so violently that it’s hard to take him seriously. “I’m not about to negotiate with a kid for a gem he stole! Yeah, that’s right, we saw you back there in Fhirdiad,” he adds, grinning at what Byleth supposes must be the flicker of surprise that had crossed his face. “Kid’s got guts to just snatch up something like this! We figured it’d be way easier to steal it off him rather than from the market, so we trailed you three all the way here and waited ‘til you were _distracted_ to strike.”

“D—” Byleth feels his entire person flush in humiliation. Someone had _seen_ them? _Multiple_ someones? His thoughts are thrown in complete disarray through those words alone, and the only thing that manages to ground him back to reality is the weak reassurance that at least they’d both still had their clothes on.

Jeritza, on the other hand, steps forward and raises his scythe. “It appears this situation still hasn’t sunk in for you,” he says darkly. “Would you rather keep your left leg or right leg?”

“Wait! Wait, wait—” The man shoves his arm before himself, putting the boy dangling off his wrist between him and Jeritza. “Look, we don’t mean no harm! Just let us have the gem and we’ll be off. You wouldn’t even have known we were here if this damn kid didn’t wake up the instant I tried to get the gem and try to bite my hand off!”

“It’s what you deserve,” Jeritza grumbles.

“And once again, the exchange is not ours to make,” Byleth says, clearing his throat. The man Jeritza had maimed is still lying on the ground, sniffling pathetically in a growing pool of his own blood, his arm a meter away from him. “I believe you should hurry, too, or else your friend might bleed to death.”

“Ugh! Damn it!” But instead of negotiating with the boy — not that Byleth honestly believed it would have changed anything — the leader simply grabs the boy by the back of his collar with enough force to finally yank him off his arm and throws him to the ground. The boy lands with a rough _thump_ and a yelp of pain, and the other bandit darts in to snatch the fallen gem before the boy can pull himself together. “Run, man!” the leader shouts, scrambling over to lift his injured companion onto his back while the other one makes an impressive break for it. “Don’t stop ‘til you get back to the city!”

Byleth has to admit their speed and teamwork is commendable, but that’s about it. He readies himself to give chase, as Jeritza is already advancing on the leader slowed down by the injured man on his back, but stumbles to a stop when the boy leaps to his feet. “You!” he growls. “Stop — Stop — Stop right there!”

“Wait—” Byleth’s eyes widen and he hurries forward, but it’s already too late: the boy thrusts his arms before him, his fingertips glowing violet.

Miasma thickens the air, weighs it down until Byleth can just about feel the pressure on his shoulders from the stench alone. He coughs and takes a step back, eyes watering, then gives himself a moment to recover before moving forward again. “Kid,” Byleth calls, wincing at the fog that immediately darts into his mouth, “stop it, let go, I’ll take care of it — kid!”

But the boy clearly hears nothing, focusing entirely on the fleeing man — the miasma gathers into a thick, pulsating ball of poisonous mist before his opened palms, and then with a furious cry he pushes it forward, the dark magic cutting through the air until it smashes against the bandit’s back.

Despite the force, the magic isn’t entirely solid — the man stumbles but doesn’t fall, regaining his balance quickly and hardly even stopping to look behind him. Once again, admittedly admirable.

But he had stumbled, even if only for a moment, and that had been enough for the magic; miasma trails all along his body, envelops him, sinks into his mouth and ears and eyes, and his screams last for but a moment. Byleth watches, too shocked to do much else, as the man topples to the ground without another sound, and the miasma thins out until it becomes a slim sliver of fog that wraps around the stolen gemstone, drifting through the air to deposit it safely into the boy’s hands before disappearing entirely.

He’s seen dark magic work before, of course, whether it had been Hubert or Lysithea casting the spells or the Agarthans on the other end of the battlefield, and he had thought himself long used to how it was more often than not far more grisly than reason or faith magic. But Byleth had never imagined a spell of such level could be cast by the hands of a child who can’t be even ten years of age.

The boy wobbles unsteadily, and Byleth shakes himself out of his surprise, rushing over to catch the boy before he falls. “Are you alright?” he asks, casting a Heal spell before he’s even finished speaking, but there are no external wounds to heal aside from a mild bruise on his forehead. The gemstone is clutched firmly in his grip, at least. “Kid, that was…”

He sniffles. “I’m s-sorry. But he — he started it! I-It was mine, and he stole it!”

Byleth itches to point out that the gemstone had been stolen by the boy himself as well, but decides that’s a bit inappropriate for the situation. “Right, right,” he says instead, glancing up to meet Jeritza’s eyes; he’s standing above the two other bandits, with the leader lying face-down on the grass and probably passed out, now one leg less. “As long as you’re unhurt, it doesn’t matter. Come on. Can you walk?”

The boy nods, clutching onto the edge of his coat when Byleth lets him go, and Jeritza meets them halfway. “That was impressive dark magic,” he says mildly, casting an unfeeling glance over at the body. For once, Byleth is glad for the darkness, because he’d really rather not see how the corpse looks. “Do you have your gemstone, boy?”

“Y-Yeah.” He looks down at the gem in his palms once more, and Byleth sighs down at it: still perfectly intact, shining and shimmering under the faint moonlight. So much trouble and blood for such a tiny thing. “I… I’m glad… t-thank you both again…”

“It’s fine,” Byleth repeats, a little distressed. This child can go from a ferocious dark mage to a timid little boy in less than a minute. “Just make sure you keep that gemstone of yours better hidden from now on.”

Jeritza gives the two fallen bandits a kick before walking back to their campsite, Byleth and the boy following behind. “There may be more of them waiting somewhere nearby,” Jeritza says, shouldering their bags once more and extinguishing the fire. “It would be unwise to remain here. Shall we walk a little further and find somewhere else for the night?”

“You’re not… alarmed at all?” Byleth whispers, careful not to let the boy hear.

“We’ve both seen worse,” Jeritza points out.

“That’s… certainly true, but…” Byleth worries on his lower lip, glancing down the child next to him — they’re focused on the gemstone again, fiddling with it with their hands, and they look every part a regular boy, except perhaps for how the smell of poison and miasma clings to him. Even if he had been experimented upon by the Agarthans, it couldn’t have been for too long, else his hair would either be entirely white by now or he would be dead, yet his magic now far outclasses that of the spells even Lysithea had known when she had still been a student. Could the Agarthans have possibly done something to speed up the learning process, or…

The boy sniffs again, and Byleth belatedly notices he’s stopped walking, standing a few ways away behind them. “What’s wrong?” he asks, crouching down to be eye-level with him. “Are you hurt anywhere? I’ll help you walk, come on. Just a bit further and we can rest for the night, I promise.”

“N-No, I’m okay. But… ah…” He scrubs at his eyes and shakes his head. “I-I’ve been trouble, haven’t I? I… M-My magic… The Agarthans were right after all…”

Jeritza frowns. “In my experience they have almost always been terribly wrong.”

“They s-said I had to stay with them, because… no one else would like me.” The boy stares down at his feet. “I-I… when Ma and Da both went away, I was alone, a-and… one of them helped me while the older kids were hurting me. So I thought they were the good guys!” he exclaims, squeezing his eyes shut as if too ashamed to face them. “I asked them to t-teach me the magic, but it was… so scary, it was so scary… like something’s always in my head and t-telling me to hurt others. When I tried to leave, t-they said everyone would just h-hate me more now…”

“Ah.”

“…Ah?” Byleth quietly repeats, staring at Jeritza. “Is that all you have to say…?”

Jeritza shakes his head. Silently he raises his arm, the one not holding onto his scythe, and opens his palm. It takes a short moment until he manages to conjure a small, sparking ball of dark magic. Byleth blinks, but doesn’t recoil — he knows Hubert had taught Jeritza a bit of dark magic when they had been younger, although Jeritza hadn’t bothered to keep learning after a while and still prefers the scythe. The boy, on the other hand, stares up at him in shock. “That…”

He nods. “Dark magic. A very weak version of the Death spell.” He closes his fist, and the magic dissipates under his fingers. “My companion here has also experienced his fair share of dark magic. What you did there earlier was the least of the spells we have seen.”

“B-But… it’s still bad, right?” the boy mumbles. “People will still hate me, won’t they?”

“It doesn’t matter how many people hate you.” Jeritza glances over at Byleth, then turns to look back at the boy. “As long as there are still those who like you.”

They walk until the end of the plains the next morning, then cross the river to the edges of Charon territory until they find a street food vendor to buy lunch from nearby. “We must be getting closer to Garreg Mach, then,” Byleth surmises. They’d seen a few other travelers on the road, but now there are more people, like merchants passing through trade routes or messengers dressed in Imperial clothing running to and fro, with even the odd priest in the familiar monastery uniform passing by.

The boy looks up from the steamed bun in his hands. “Garreg Mach?”

“Yes. Have you heard of it? It was… my old workplace,” Byleth says, a little awkwardly. He’d nearly said _my old school,_ if only because it sometimes felt like his former students taught him just as much as he taught them. “Jeritza worked there too, though only for, what, four months?”

Jeritza scowls. “I was never meant to be a professor. All the students, the noise… ugh.”

“Didn’t you tell me you wouldn’t mind doing it again before?”

“You shut your mouth.”

The mountain ranges of Charon make the journey much longer and more difficult than it would have been, but miraculously they manage to reach Garreg Mach just as the sun has set and night has fallen. Byleth hasn’t been here in a long while, and he can’t help but stare at all the new renovations the small town has seen — there’s more space for traveling merchants to sell their wares, the roads are better paved and not as bumpy as they used to be, and houses and other buildings are less shabby and no longer look like they will crumble under a storm. While bustling, the atmosphere is still much more relaxed than that of Fhirdiad, and the boy turns around in place to gawk at everything.

Jeritza, of course, is already gravitating towards the nearest tavern. “No matter what, surely dinner comes first,” he says, when he turns around to meet Byleth’s eyes. “Besides, it is hardly as if anyone is waiting for us here.”

“Oh? You sure about that?”

Byleth tenses, before relaxing — the voice had been unfamiliar at first, after going so long without hearing it, but then he can only laugh softly at how Jeritza visibly stiffens. “Lysithea,” he greets. “We certainly weren’t expecting you.”

Lysithea is standing just a few ways away in the middle of the street, her arms crossed over her chest and her customary frown on her face. Byleth has no idea how many times he’s heard Dorothea tell her she’s going to develop wrinkles early on if she keeps scowling like that, but as with all things Lysithea, the words haven’t deterred her in the least. “Yes, well,” she sighs, shaking her head, “we got your letter, about finishing up the mission? And Hubert had his hands full back at the palace, so they got me to go instead.”

“You’re here to pick us up?”

“Mm.” She raises an eyebrow down at the boy, who had scurried to hide behind Byleth’s legs the moment she’d spoken. “And this is the child you mentioned? Well, whatever. Now hurry up and come on, I’ve been standing around and waiting here for days now.”

“Wait.” Jeritza sounds distressed. “We will not even have dinner first?”

Lysithea’s eyebrow goes ever higher.

The staring contest lasts but a few seconds, and Jeritza grumbles unintelligibly under his breath as he trudges away from the tavern entrance and joining Byleth and the boy at Lysithea’s side. Byleth has to stifle another laugh — back when Jeritza had still been on the other side of the battlefield, Lysithea’s magic had always been the only thing that could overpower him, even if she’d still been a student then. “Alright, alright,” he mutters. “Surely there is _something_ waiting for us at the Imperial Palace?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Lysithea says primly. She moves her arms in a complicated gesture, and then the familiar dizzying sensation of the Warp spell overtakes Byleth as she casts the magic.

When next he opens his eyes, it isn’t to the streets of the town of Garreg Mach but the brightly-lit, carpeted corridors of the Imperial Palace — it takes Byleth a moment to recognize this as the entrance hall, and then another moment to register the mild sting around his leg as the boy clutching onto him tightly enough to hurt. “Calm down, it’s fine,” he reassures, bending down slightly to smooth down his mussed hair. “We’re at the safe place we promised you.”

“A-Ah…” He swallows and sniffles. “That was… That was magic right now, wasn’t it?”

Byleth nods. Jeritza and Lysithea are beside him, the latter watching them speak curiously. “This is Lysithea,” he introduces, a bit embarrassed about how he’d forgotten to do so earlier. “She actually… well, she’s a bit like you. She knows how to use dark magic too.”

“Really?” The boy looks confused. “But, the magic a while ago, i-it didn’t hurt us or anything…”

“That’s because there are ways to use this magic for good, too,” Lysithea says, stepping closer. Byleth backs away — he hadn’t revealed much in the letter, but Lysithea has always been smart, and she’s probably figured out the origins of this child and what happened to him under the Agarthans. “Dark magic was created for evil once, yes. But that doesn’t mean evil is the only thing it’s capable of.”

The boy looks speechless, staring up at Lysithea with sparkling eyes. She blinks and looks at Byleth and Jeritza, who both take a step back. “What?” she asks, a hint of panic creeping into her tone. “What’s — Why’s he looking at me like that?”

“I — I want to use it for good too!” the boy exclaims, startling Lysithea. “P-Please teach me! I want to learn, I-I’ll do my best…”

“Um, hold on,” Lysithea says, raising her hands up in a placating gesture, “I’m not exactly teacher material — you two!” she hisses, whirling around to glare at Byleth and Jeritza behind her. “Did you plan this or something? I have other things to do here, you know, I can’t afford to babysit a child on top of all that!”

“We are not telling you to do anything,” Jeritza says, very slowly, although he can’t seem to meet Lysithea’s eyes either. “We _did_ plan to leave the child in the care of the Imperial Palace, though. I suppose it helps that he likes someone from here already.”

Lysithea looks back down at the boy, who has now glued himself to her side, and then back up at them. “You…” She sighs and shakes her head. “Whatever! I’ll have to talk to Edelgard and the rest about this, _ugh,_ I swear, even now you never cease to be a headache. Alright, alright, follow me, it’s dinnertime and I’m starving. You’re hungry too, aren’t you?” she adds, looking down at the child beside her.

The boy begins to nod, before hurriedly shaking his head. “N-Not very! I had a steamed bun for lunch.”

“…That’s _all you had_ for _lunch?_ ” Lysithea growls, and though she’s speaking to the boy she’s definitely looking over at Byleth and Jeritza, who both avoid her gaze. “I can’t stand you two. Come on, kid, it’s time to eat some real food. By the way, what’d you say your name was?”

The boy fidgets a little. “Lady… Lysithea?”

“That’s me.”

“Then…” He fidgets a little more, then stammers out, “L-Luca!”

Byleth stares at him. “Did you come up with that just now?”

“Names made on the spur of the moment are just as meaningful as those carefully chosen,” Jeritza wisely remarks. Easy for him to say — he’d probably made his own name up when he chose it.

“Okay then, Luca,” Lysithea slowly says, as if trying to confirm if that really is his name. The boy — well, Luca, now — nods rapidly, an excited smile on his face; it reminds Byleth far too much of how Ciel had been when they had first chosen their name as well. The thought gives him pause — are he and Jeritza unwittingly raising a new generation of children who would rather choose their own names now? “Well, enough dallying, they’re all waiting for us. I bet your kid’s bouncing off the walls by now,” Lysithea says, looking back at Byleth and Jeritza when she adds the last part.

Somehow just the mention of Ciel, the reminder that they’re here, has Byleth relaxing a ridiculous amount. “How have they been the past few days?”

“Well, they return all the books they borrow on time, so it looks like you taught them _some_ manners,” Lysithea says, sounding pleased. Byleth supposes it must be some sort of enormous accomplishment to do so, considering how strict the deadlines she sets on the books in the Imperial Library are; not even Edelgard herself is exempt to the punishment of a late book. “As for the rest, I have no idea. You’re better off asking them yourself.”

The dining hall in the Imperial Palace is just as Byleth remembers it: large and grand with a long table in the middle, dishes upon dishes piled atop for the sort of feast he’s only ever been able to have in this place. Even the seating positions are the same, if memory serves right — Edelgard at one end of the table, Hubert and Ferdinand already bickering on either side of her, then Bernadetta and a vacant seat across her that must be for Lysithea. Beside Bernadetta is Ciel, still too short that their feet don’t touch the (thankfully not carpeted) floor and nearly chin-level with the table.

Ciel’s blue eyes widen to the size of the dinner plates on the table the instant Byleth steps in. “Byle! Jeri!” They leap off the chair and speed over to cling to Byleth’s legs in an impressive show of speed. “You’re back… you took so long.”

“Has it even been a week?” Jeritza wonders.

“So long,” Ciel repeats, empathically, leaving no room for argument. Jeritza opens his mouth, then decides to concede the argument and simply nods as if in admittance of his crimes. “Hurry up. I’m hungry.”

“Have you gotten more eloquent since we left?” Byleth observes.

Ciel looks confused, probably not knowing what _eloquent_ means, but Ferdinand clears his throat. “I certainly did my best to help further expand their vocabulary! They have taken quite a liking to how I prepare tea as well. Byleth, Jeritza, you certainly have raised a very cultured and refined young one.”

“They hate it,” Hubert clarifies. “They just drink the tea to be polite.”

Ciel runs back to the table, over to where Hubert is sitting, and kicks his chair leg. “You’re not supposed to say it!”

Hubert takes a serene sip of wine, looking perfectly unbothered. Ferdinand, on the other hand, looks utterly devastated.

“Alright, alright, everyone calm down,” Edelgard sighs. She’s wearing her hair in a loose side-ponytail instead of up in that complicated hairstyle incorporating the Imperial crown that Byleth has never been able to understand. “Byleth, Jeritza, welcome back,” she greets, a small smile growing on her face. “It has been a while, hasn’t it? A shame we only got to meet because of the Agarthans’ reemergence.”

Byleth nods, before realizing he’s talking to the emperor of Fódlan and should probably be bowing right now like everyone else does, but when he looks at Edelgard it’s still hard to think of her as someone other than the same young girl who, despite Bernadetta’s best efforts, could never use a bow and arrow properly. “Hello, Edelgard,” he greets instead; even ‘Your Majesty’ doesn’t sound quite right. “It’s been a while.”

“About the mission,” Jeritza is already saying, “it looks like the Agarthans might be—”

“Shh!” Lysithea hushes. Jeritza gives her a dirty look. “Eat first, talk later. Weren’t you the one who wanted to get dinner before even coming back here?”

While Byleth fancies himself having gotten much better at cooking since his monastery days, nothing beats the food made by the professional chefs in the Imperial Palace — he, Jeritza, and especially Luca dig in without hesitation nor shame. It’s been a while since Byleth’s eaten with more than three people like this, but he doesn’t mind the extra conversation: Bernadetta is regaling Hubert with tales of her latest crochet project, while Ferdinand and Lysithea are discussing the intricacies of imbuing horses with magic.

Ciel shoots Luca, sitting a few seats away from them, confused glances as if trying to understand why there is suddenly another child in the room, then eventually tugs on Jeritza’s sleeve. “Who?”

“Luca,” Jeritza grunts, in between mouthfuls of food. “Was held prisoner by the Agarthans.”

“Oh,” Ciel says, slowly. They probably don’t know what the Agarthans are either. “Huh… okay.” And then, without so much as a transition, they say, “Hube showed me this thing with knives. I’m gonna try it on Ave when we go back home.”

“…Who?” Jeritza says, halfway to raising his fork to his mouth.

“Ave,” Ciel repeats patiently.

“No, no, the other one…”

“Oh. Hube?” Ciel points at, of course, Hubert. He stabs a cut of pheasant with his fork, looking far from endeared by the nickname; Ciel, on the other hand, looks quite pleased with themselves as they start pointing at the rest. “There’s Edel, Ferdie, Bernie, Lysi, and Mari sometimes when she’s here. But Hube is Hube.”

Byleth rests his chin on his palm, doing his utmost best to keep from bursting into laughter. “It sounds rather like cube.”

“What exactly did he teach you with the knife?” Jeritza asks, exchanging glares with Hubert across the table. Next to Hubert, Edelgard just sighs, like she had been mentally preparing herself for this but still hadn’t quite expected it to happen this quickly.

Ciel takes the knife next to their plate and twirls it in their fingers, somehow managing not to scratch themselves on the blade, and then in a blink it’s gone. “And then… here,” they say cheerily, the knife reappearing in their other hand. It hadn’t been fast enough that Byleth hadn’t been able to see where they had pulled it out of — from one of their numerous coat pockets, of course — but it’s certainly impressive for their age. “Isn’t it nice? If anyone bothers me again, I’ll do this.”

“Bothers you?” Ferdinand asks. “Do you mean to say you are being, ahem… challenged to duels at school?” In an undertone to Lysithea, he murmurs, “What do children do in school these days, anyway?”

“You’re asking me?” Lysithea hisses back.

Ciel scratches their cheek. “Um… well… yesterday someone said Hube looked like a weirdo,” they grumble. “When he magic’d me to the gates and someone saw him. So I think I might be using it on that fool first.”

“ _That fool?_ ” Byleth repeats incredulously. Since when did Ciel say things like that?

Ciel once again wordlessly points at Hubert. Under Byleth’s wide-eyed stare and Jeritza’s murderous glare, Hubert only shrugs. “What?” he says, glancing at them with his one visible eye. “I was only helping expand their vocabulary. Surely they cannot be limited to just ‘idiot’ forever.”

“Perhaps we should have just left them with Mercedes,” Byleth sighs.

Ciel is still bursting at the seams with more stories to share — gardening with Bernadetta, sorting library books with Lysithea, horseback riding with Ferdinand, watching Hubert experiment with a new poison, and for some reason filing reports with Edelgard — but it’s late by the time they finish dinner, and they’re already yawning with every other sentence. “How about tomorrow?” Byleth suggests, walking Ciel to their room, one of the Imperial Palace’s many guest rooms. “We’ll still be staying here for another night anyway. We can head back home tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Ciel says, sounding disappointed. “Will we come see Edel and the rest again? When I get better at magic I wanna show Mari and Lysi.”

“Of course,” Byleth says, managing a smile. If the situation with the Agarthans gets more serious, he suspects they’ll be seeing much of the palace again, after all, although he dearly hopes it doesn’t come to that. “Now head to sleep now. Jeritza and I have to talk to the rest about… other things, I’m afraid.”

Ciel pauses right outside their door, looking up at Byleth. “About… Luca?” they ask, saying the name slowly as if unused to it.

Byleth nods. “You won’t give him a nickname?”

“Luca is already short.” Under their breath, they mutter, “Che.”

“Yes, well… Luca is a special case,” Byleth says, and he’s not just talking about the nickname situation. “There might be more children like him, who are being hurt by the Agarthans — they’re bad people, don’t ever get too close to odd-looking strangers, alright? Anyway, goodnight, Ciel.” He sighs, and bends down to press a gentle kiss to the crown of their head. “We both missed you in the past week. I’m glad to see you’re well.”

Ciel squirms, a shy smile on their face. “Missed you too.”

Byleth reconvenes with the rest of the group in the tactics hall somewhere on the second floor, a location he only finds through muscle memory, and sits himself on his then-usual seat beside Jeritza near the far end of the long table. “That is all we discovered in Fhirdiad,” Jeritza says, seemingly having just finished explaining what had happened. “If there is nothing else for us to do here, we shall take our leave…”

“No, no, hold on,” Edelgard says, her nose nearly touching the reports before her. Jeritza sighs. “This lines up with our other reports. The base Ferdinand and Bernadetta infiltrated last week was much the same, wasn’t it? Only you didn’t reach the human experiments in time, unfortunately,” she adds, giving the two in question a sympathetic look. Ferdinand shakes his head while Bernadetta looks down, rubbing her hands together. “And scouts have been reporting more missing persons case that are all more or less similar to one another. People disappearing without a trace in places where dark magic is abundant…”

“So our worst fears have been confirmed,” Hubert mutters tiredly. “The Agarthans are once again trying to rally their forces. For what, we can only suppose it is to revive the Fell King Nemesis, though how I have little idea.”

“But didn’t we already, you know, take care of that during the war?” Bernadetta pipes up, brows furrowing. “We destroyed his body in Shambhala after defeating Thales, and… we were all there, weren’t we? It’s not like they could’ve made a new body for him!”

“When it comes to the Agarthans, nothing is impossible,” Lysithea says lowly. “I have to agree that even this is improbable, though. It should take much longer to create a new body — or vessel, that might be the more proper term — than just a year or two after we destroyed the first one. If I may guess,” she adds, looking up from one of the reports to address the room, “judging by how they’re conducting more human experiments, it’s probably something along the lines of seizing the throne by force.”

Ferdinand’s brows nearly disappear under his hairline. “Preposterous! An uprising? Do they mean to reveal themselves to the rest of the continent to fulfill their aim, then?”

“They wouldn’t need to,” Edelgard murmurs. “If they succeed with a human Crest experiment again, like with what happened to Lysithea and I, they could use that person — or those people — as brainwashed figureheads for their cause. Surely you’ve heard of some of the protests scattered along the Faerghus region. They’re small at scale now, yes, but though I try I cannot please everyone, and eventually…”

The silence weighs down on Byleth’s shoulders, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He hasn’t been in a meeting like this for years now, and while tactics on the battlefield are nothing new to him, political discussions always just fly straight over his head. Beside him, Jeritza looks equally awkward, staring down at the wood grains on the table.

Ferdinand sighs and breaks the silence first, massaging his temple. “I am afraid there is nothing new about the masses being dissatisfied with their ruler. But what exactly are the protests about?”

“Totalitarian rule,” Lysithea tells him. She isn’t even bothering to look at the papers anymore. “Something-something the late King Dimitri deserved the position more.”

“What! And I suppose they are wholly of the belief that leaders are people first and should act according to their emotions!?”

“Ferdinand, calm down,” Edelgard placates, sounding like she’s gone through this exact same conversation several times already. “People are entitled to their opinions. Besides, you act as if this isn’t something you’ve heard before.”

Hubert snorts. “Opinions? Your Majesty, please…”

Edelgard flaps a hand in the air. “Anyway. It’s late and we’re not going to be getting anywhere if we talk too far in the evening, so let’s wrap this up quickly and continue this at a later date. But do any of you have suggestions as for what to do with the rescued child?” she asks. “If what Jeritza says is true, about his dark magic and his… apparent lack of moral understanding… then it might be a bit crass to just leave him in an orphanage.”

“You could keep him here.”

“That’s — excuse me?” Edelgard blinks. “Professor — no, wait, my apologies. Byleth, what did you say?”

“You could keep him here,” Byleth repeats, trying not to quail now that every pair of eyes in the room is staring at him. Only Jeritza looks mildly amused rather than surprised. “He’s already fond of Lysithea, and perhaps you could even educate him in dark magic… among other areas, of course. But Mercedes’ orphanage is always open too,” he says, glancing over at Jeritza for confirmation. “You know how she is. She wouldn’t let any other children get hurt by accident with his magic, at least.”

“Well, that’s… hm,” Edelgard mumbles, looking thoughtful. “A child in the palace? Under whose care? He needs proper parents.”

“If I may, Your Majesty, I believe a child can grow up properly with the right care and guidance, not necessarily with a pair of parents,” Hubert says, picking at his gloves. “Please do not take that as my vote on the matter, however. I shall respectfully refuse to have a say in this.”

“Oh, come on, he uses dark magic like you too, you know,” Lysithea points out, crossing her arms over her chest. “It can’t just be me he’ll cling to! I’ll never get any work done otherwise!”

“It would not be bad to have a little one around,” Ferdinand muses.

“And he’s probably still shaken up from what he went through with the Agarthans,” Bernadetta adds. “If we just up and left him in an orphanage, whether at Mercedes’ or somewhere else, I really don’t think it’d be good for him.”

Byleth and Jeritza exchange a look, which unfortunately doesn’t go by unnoticed by Hubert. “You two,” he says, darkly. “Do not tell me you planned this.”

“Since that is not a question, I am not obligated to provide an answer,” Jeritza says easily. “Once again, if we are no longer needed here, we shall be off. But may I add one more thing?”

Edelgard looks suspicious, but gestures for him to continue.

“You do eventually need an heir, Edelgard,” Jeritza says flatly. “It wouldn’t hurt to have one now.”

Then he stands up, tugs Byleth out of his seat, and hurries out of the room right before the silence he leaves behind explodes into chaotic chattering Edelgard will no doubt have a headache trying to calm down. Byleth stifles a laugh when he leans against the wall behind him, and Jeritza has a little smile — or, well, smirk — tilted on his lips as well. “Did you attend the meeting just to say that?” Byleth asks. He’s more than a little familiar with how Jeritza does things.

Jeritza only shrugs. “If I did?”

“Then I am the farthest thing from surprised.” Byleth checks to make sure both ends of the hallway are empty before tugging Jeritza down for a kiss — it was meant to be quick and chaste, but unexpectedly enough Jeritza uses one hand to press his shoulder back against the wall, and his tongue swipes over Byleth’s bottom lip as if in promise before drawing back. “Do you… know where our room is?” Byleth asks, a bit dazed.

“No, but if I have to guess it will be the same one we used last time.” Jeritza reaches down and clasps Byleth’s hand firmly in his own. “Let us hope we will not be sharing it with anyone else again.”

Thankfully, their room is already nice and furnished, and most importantly empty aside from the two of them — Byleth has half a mind to look around first and see if anything’s changed from what he last remembers about it, but Jeritza wastes no time pulling him to the bed and pressing him down on the sheets, which, if Byleth is being honest, is the better choice in this situation anyway. “D-Did you — Did you even lock the door?” he manages in between hungry kisses.

“Does that matter?” Jeritza mutters.

“ _Yes?_ ”

With seemingly immense effort and self-control, Jeritza stands up and walks over to lock the door. Byleth blinks up at the room ceiling for a bit, more distracted by the kisses than he’d like to admit, then rearranges himself to be a little more comfortable on the sheets. They had, at least, remembered to kick their boots off before getting on the bed, but now the rest of his clothes are just starting to feel stifling.

“What do you want?” Byleth asks, softly, when Jeritza returns to the bed and drapes himself atop him. The restless energy is still there, heavy in the atmosphere, but the brief interruption had been enough to let them restrain it for the time being.

Jeritza doesn’t respond immediately, runs his fingers down the line of Byleth’s jaw first before his fingers reach all the way down the collar of his shirt. “You.”

“…I mean… obviously,” Byleth chokes out.

Apparently what he’d said isn’t even worth a reply, as Jeritza rolls his eyes before pressing close to scatter biting kisses along his throat. Byleth certainly doesn’t mind; he leans back, baring his neck further, feels Jeritza’s entire body shudder above him when he moves his leg just so. “I don’t have… the oil on me,” Byleth manages. “And I would rather not, um, die.” How would it even feel to take Jeritza in without it? He’d probably die, wouldn’t he? He can’t foresee any other possible outcome.

“Hmm,” Jeritza responds, looking more interested in pulling Byleth’s shirt off of him, which is nice too. Byleth raises his arms over his head and lets Jeritza tug the fabric off, shivering slightly at the rush of cold air. “I don’t mind,” Jeritza eventually says, speaking against Byleth’s sternum. “As long as I can touch you like this.”

“Th…” Byleth can feel his face warming up already. Either Jeritza really needs to stop just _saying things_ like that, or Byleth really needs to start getting used to it. “Hold — Hold on, then,” he stammers out, reaching down for the knife sheathed at his waist; he’d forgotten to take it off with the rest of his armor earlier after dinner. Jeritza draws back slightly to let him move, and Byleth stretches his arm out to place the knife atop the bedside dresser when he spots something else amidst the objects on the surface. “Is that…?”

The glass is cool to the touch. Byleth stares at the bottle of oil, sees Jeritza do the same, and wants to pass out right then and there. “It… It couldn’t have been Edelgard, could it?” Byleth croaks.

Jeritza shakes his head, not looking relieved in the slightest. “She is too busy to direct the cleaning staff for something specific like this. Hubert, on the other hand…”

For a long moment, all they can do is sit there in silence. Byleth’s brain feels ready to implode at the thought of Hubert instructing the cleaning staff to put — _this_ in their room; or, even worse, if Hubert had been the one to place this here himself. That said, hadn’t someone mentioned how the security measures in the Imperial Palace miss nothing? Could there be a tendril of dark magic somewhere in the room, spying on them too?

“Well… he was… considerate enough to put this here,” Byleth eventually says, although he can barely even hear himself. “We may as well…?”

Jeritza buries his face in his hands. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

“I have extremely little reason to speak of this at all.” Byleth uncorks the bottle and hands it over to Jeritza, who peers out from a gap between his fingers. “Would you like to do the honors?”

After going so long without it, having Jeritza inside him again — even if only his fingers — has Byleth shuddering against the sheets. It feels almost too good to be true, and he doesn’t realize he’s rolling his hips, trying to take in more of Jeritza, until Jeritza places a hand on his thigh. “Calm down,” he orders, though he sounds more amused than anything.

Byleth stills with an embarrassed huff. “You’re taking too long.”

“You want it faster?”

Why does it sound so dirty? Byleth stares at a random spot on the bed to collect his thoughts, then mumbles, “It’s just been a while.”

Jeritza sighs and bends down slightly to brush his lips against Byleth’s own, barely even touching — Byleth leans up to press them deeper together, but Jeritza pulls back near immediately, leaving Byleth staring dumbly up at him and feeling vaguely betrayed. “If it’s what you want, then,” Jeritza says, and — Byleth’s breath catches in his throat when he adds a third digit and pushes them in to the knuckle. It _is_ faster than he’s used to, but the burn only fuels the sudden spike of pleasure, and he can’t quite stifle the half-startled, half-pleased moan that escapes him.

“Good?” Jeritza murmurs, close enough that his voice is right beside Byleth’s ear, and though he sounds much the same as ever, Byleth can’t help but wonder if he’s being a taunting bastard on purpose, because _of course it feels good._ He doesn’t wait for a reply before drawing his fingers out then _shoving_ them back in with unexpected force, and whatever Byleth may have wanted to say is drowned out by the sensation; he whimpers and arches his back, the most he can do when Jeritza’s other hand is still holding him down by the thigh. His cock is beginning to ache against his thigh; it says far too much about how long they’ve gone without this that just this already has him needy. “That sounded good.”

Byleth doesn’t know what words can best convey the emotions he’s feeling, so he settles for what must be the least intimidating glare in all of history. As he’d expected, Jeritza just looks endeared. “I’m ready,” Byleth says, tugging at Jeritza’s undershirt. Why is he still wearing this when Byleth has been lying naked on the bed for at least five minutes now? “Hurry up and… already.”

“Did no one teach you to complete your sentences?” Jeritza asks, the clear restlessness in his movements as he pulls his shirt off betraying his languid tone.

“As if you are any better…”

Byleth falls quiet when Jeritza finally tosses his pants to the floor, though — he’s already half-hard, and when he lowers himself his length presses against Byleth’s thigh as if in promise. Despite his excitement he can’t resist reaching down to wrap a hand around Jeritza’s cock, the size and feel of it already familiar in his grip, and he gives him a tentative stroke. Jeritza lets out a shaky sigh, hovering above Byleth, his hair come loose from its usual ponytail and draped down the sides of his face.

“Beautiful,” Byleth breathes, softly. He’s said this dozens of times before already, including the first time they had ever touched each other like this, but he doesn’t care. He’d say this a hundred thousand times more if he had to, if only because Jeritza becomes delightfully shy no matter what. “Hm? It’s true,” Byleth adds, smiling in the kiss he pushes himself up for.

“I, well,” is all Jeritza mumbles. The shyness fades when Byleth continues moving, his wrist going from careful to fast and rough when Jeritza jerks into his touch; he doesn’t do anything particularly special, stroking messily and thumbing the slit to smear the pre-cum along his cock, but Jeritza obviously likes it anyway when he groans Byleth’s name and presses their foreheads together, his skin warm to the touch. “Wait,” he eventually gasps, “stop, I—”

Byleth pulls back without hesitation. “I — apologize, did I do something—”

“No, no, I just. Do not want to end this too quickly,” Jeritza grumbles, once again looking adorably embarrassed.

Byleth smothers a laugh — he deserves it anyway, for how close his own fingering had driven Byleth earlier — but relents. He means to raise his legs to make it easier for the both of them, already used to the position (and was pleasantly surprised to find out it counts as a form of stretching the muscles), before he pauses and stares down at himself first. “Hm… hold on.”

“Is something wrong?” Jeritza asks, worry furrowing his brows.

“No. Just wondering…” Byleth mulls it over a bit more, before slowly pushing himself up with his elbows, then deftly flipping over to lie on his stomach, pushing his behind up with his knees in a reversal of his earlier position. “How is this?” he asks, rather pleased with himself. Granted, this means he can’t see Jeritza’s face anymore, but it is also infinitely less strenuous on Byleth’s thighs. They’ve traveled nonstop for the past week, so surely he deserves to lie down like this for one night.

Unexpectedly enough, Jeritza says nothing, just stares at him — well, his ass, to be specific — with wide eyes. Then he nods, as if his mouth is too dry to enable speech, before clearing his throat and nodding again. “Yes,” he rasps. “It’s… good. It’s very — yes.”

“You like it,” Byleth observes.

“I should hope that was obvious,” Jeritza huffs. He reaches down to grab Byleth’s thigh, thumb digging into the soft flesh, and Byleth subconsciously spreads his legs further apart at the touch. The hitch he hears in Jeritza’s breathing warms Byleth’s chest more than he’d like to admit; he’d never thought himself particularly attractive nor particularly ugly, because he’d never really cared of such matters before, but now he’s glad Jeritza seems to like him… or his backside, anyway.

The position offers a new sense of surprise, though — Byleth can’t see much aside from the bedpost and the pillow beneath his chin, so he has to suppress a startled jolt when he feels what is undeniably the tip of Jeritza’s cock press against his hole. “Can I?” Jeritza asks, his other hand feather-light on Byleth’s shoulderblades.

Byleth sighs. “We _have_ already gone this far.”

“I want to hear it.”

“Yes,” Byleth concedes, smiling into the pillow. “Of course, Jeritza.”

He still shivers when Jeritza finally enters him, the stretch just on this side of painfully pleasurable, and buries his face in the pillow as Jeritza continues pushing in. Is it just him, or does the position make it feel even deeper than usual? The angle is usually a little off when he’s lying on his back — but this isn’t something he has time to think about when Jeritza, apparently seized by impatience, pulls back just to thrust the rest of the way in, sending sparks flying through Byleth’s body and pushing a stuttered moan out of him. “L-Like that,” he gasps. “Faster…”

“Faster?” Jeritza repeats, sounding incredulous. “Won’t it… hurt?”

“Do you think me so fragile?” Byleth returns, unable to keep the teasing tone out of his voice.

Apparently that does something to Jeritza, because he says nothing more, only tightens his grip on Byleth’s thighs and repeats the motion, speeding up with each shove inside; he tries to keep his noises in check, because he doubts the walls in the Imperial Palace are very thick, but it’s _hard_ when Jeritza adjusts his stance and his cock brushes against a spot that has Byleth’s entire body jerking in pleasure. “A-Ah, there, again,” he whines, pushing back to take in more of Jeritza.

Jeritza says nothing, as usual — it isn’t as if he’s very talkative anyway — but Byleth hears his breathing change, feels his hands moving from gripping onto his thighs to squeezing his ass as he shifts again before thrusting in, cock hitting Byleth’s prostate once more. A moan spills from his lips, trying and failing to properly enunciate Jeritza’s name — he grinds against the sheets beneath him, his own dick leaking a small pool of pre-cum on the blankets, before Jeritza grabs his hips and forces him to stop. “Not like that,” Jeritza breathes, his voice heavy with lust. “Let me.”

He wraps a hand around Byleth’s cock and strokes, and Byleth lets himself breathe out a shuddering sigh of relief — any longer and he might have just reached down to do it himself — then is immediately distracted again when Jeritza somehow manages to continue fucking into him, and Byleth’s mind completely blanks out. “J—Jeritza,” he gasps, “please, ah, I-I’m — I—” _close, so close_ —

Jeritza’s hand slows down, his movements stuttering, and he barely manages to mumble a slurred warning that Byleth barely even understands before he’s coming, spilling hot cum inside him. Byleth gasps against the pillow, listens to Jeritza’s unsteady breathing in a weak attempt to calm himself down — adrenaline is still thrumming in his veins, his cock aching for release, but he doesn’t want to rush Jeritza above him, especially considering he can _feel_ Jeritza’s arms trembling slightly from the effort of holding himself up.

“…Sorry,” Jeritza eventually mutters.

Byleth blinks blearily. The nearly-overwhelming surge of pleasure, and then its sudden halt, can’t possibly be healthy for him. “What for?”

“Too early,” Jeritza sighs.

He pulls out, then balances himself on his knees, gently maneuvering Byleth to lie on his back again. It’s embarrassing to have his painfully hard, leaking cock on display like this, along with the cum he can feel beginning to drip out of his hole, but with Jeritza holding him down by the shoulders like this, Byleth doesn’t exactly have much of a choice. He swallows and stares up into dark blue eyes instead. “Um, this is…?”

Jeritza’s only response is to shift down the bed, then lower himself and take Byleth in his mouth.

It’s almost too much again, and it takes every last bit of Byleth’s self-control to not come right then and there. He does very nearly kick Jeritza’s head, though, but he thinks he only deserves to be a _bit_ surprised after having received zero warning whatsoever. “Ah, J-Jeritza,” he gasps, trying to push himself up on his elbows and failing, his arms too wobbly to hold him up for long — Jeritza hums around him and takes him in deeper, tongue dragging down his shaft and sucking lightly at the tip.

Byleth gropes blindly until he manages to grip a fistful of long blonde hair, and the low moan he elicits from Jeritza only has him trembling more. Jeritza slides his mouth up his length then down again, the sounds slick and wet, while one hand holds Byleth’s thigh steady and the other — Byleth whimpers — rubbing at his entrance again, easing two fingers one after the other inside. “M… More,” he breathes, arching his back, lifting his thigh higher, spreading his legs wider and desperately trying to take in more of Jeritza. He wants and wants and wants, and he’s so _close—_

“ _Jeritza,_ ” he groans, and then he’s coming down Jeritza’s throat, throwing his head back as he tightens his shaking grip on Jeritza’s hair for some semblance of steadiness. Jeritza closes his eyes and hums again, only drawing back when Byleth has slumped back onto the bed, breathing hard and staring blearily up at the ceiling. “Ah… that…”

He can’t find the rest of the words to follow it up with, but it’s fine; he presses his face against Jeritza’s shoulder instead when Jeritza moves to lie beside him, and breathes in his familiar scent.

Jeritza rests a hand atop his hair. “It really has been too long,” he murmurs. “I have no idea how we went so long without it.”

“Do you think we were too loud?” Byleth mutters back. He doesn’t know if other people are using the rooms beside theirs, but if there are, he dearly hopes they’re either fast asleep or minding their own business right now.

“Eh,” Jeritza answers, if that can be called an answer, and just pulls Byleth closer.

He’s warm. Byleth sighs in contentment and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapters 4 and 5 won't come next week; the rest of january is packed with requirements and the first week of february is my finals week, so i have zero time to work on this unfortunately 😔 rest assured i'll do my best to deliver before march!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for your kudos, comments, and especially your patience! as promised, i finished the rest of the fic right before march, coincidentally also right before my second term starts... (pain)

Ciel watches Luca with a blank-eyed stare over the dining table the next morning, not looking shy for once, just… devoid of emotion. Luca squirms in his seat and avoids Ciel’s gaze as much as possible, before finally tugging on Lysithea’s sleeve and asking, “D-Did I do something wrong already…?”

Lysithea looks over at Ciel, then snorts in amusement. “No, they’re just always like that. Don’t mind them.”

“When do you plan to leave, you two?” Edelgard asks, looking up from her breakfast over to Byleth and Jeritza. “Of course, you’re free to stay in the palace for as long as you like before returning. And there is also something I should tell you…”

Byleth blinks, taking the time to let the words process in his head. It’s frankly a miracle he and Jeritza had woken up before noon at all today, last night considered, but then he supposes nothing works better as a wake-up call than Ferdinand’s shouting — ahem, enthusiastic good-morning — outside their room door. “Ah… we can leave right after breakfast,” he says, too tired to care about how his voice still sounds thick with sleep. “But what is it you need to say?”

Edelgard nods. “Later.”

The single word is… a little ominous. Byleth catches Jeritza frowning beside him, probably a mirror image of his own expression, but Ciel looks undisturbed. “Home?” they ask instead, their person brightening.

Jeritza nods. “Today, yes.”

“Ah…” Ciel sighs in relief. “Ave says she misses training.”

Only that child could possibly miss rigorous training regimens like they’re luxuries, Byleth thinks. Across the table, Luca lifts his head up at the word _home,_ and gives Byleth and Jeritza a pleading look. “You’re leaving?” he mumbles. “I haven’t… been able to t-thank you properly.”

“It’s fine,” Byleth reassures. Honestly speaking, he has no idea how a child of nine years old could ‘thank them properly’ anyway, since all he really has on his person is the gemstone, and that is the absolute last thing Byleth wants to receive, considering everything they’d done to keep it safe from those bandits. Speaking of which, they’re all probably dead, aren’t they? Well, they can really only blame themselves for that.

After breakfast, Ciel follows Bernadetta into the garden for one last look at the flowers, while Edelgard brings Byleth and Jeritza into her main office. It’s thankfully been remodeled a bit since the last time they’d been here, allowing Edelgard more space for a bigger desk and more cabinets and bookshelves to store documents in; a black Hresvelgion Whisker, presumably to help with any mice, is fast asleep in a plush bed in one corner. Predictably enough, Jeritza’s first question is, “What’s its name?”

“What? Oh.” Edelgard watches, looking resigned, as Jeritza crouches down to pet the cat’s back. “She’s Hubert’s… or Bernadetta’s… or Lysithea’s? Either way they can’t decide on a name, since they always start arguing when the topic comes up.”

“Ah, a she,” Jeritza notes. The cat purrs and leans into his touch.

Byleth clears his throat. “What did you call us here for, Edelgard?” he asks, since it doesn’t look like Jeritza has any plans of doing so.

Edelgard sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, leaning against the edge of her desk. “I truly appreciate your help with the last mission, and rescuing that child before those Agarthans could… injure him any further was a good decision on your part. But… well, I hate to tell you this so soon, but…”

“Is it another mission?” Byleth prompts, when Edelgard looks at an uncharacteristic loss for words. He can’t deny just hearing about it tires him a little, but then this had always been their life during the wars — domesticity has definitely softened him more than he thought. “You know you need not worry. If it is something we can help with, then there is no reason for us to refuse.”

Another sigh, though this one sounds infinitely more relieved. “My teacher, even now I continue to rely on you,” Edelgard says, shaking her head. “I am afraid it is not as simple as the previous one, however. The location this time appears to be close to the area formerly taken over by House Bartels.”

Jeritza freezes.

“Quelling a rebellion is something we should be able to take care of,” Edelgard continues, “but we must first hunt down the remaining Agarthans to ensure they will not be meddling with our business and incite any more protests. Faerghus is difficult enough to deal with on its own, after all. But if we let the Agarthans remain in Fódlan any longer, we cannot predict what they might do.”

“Why would they be in the territory?” Jeritza asks, his voice brusque but not unkind. He’s stood back up, fists clenched at his sides, while the cat meows sadly behind him. “That place had been abandoned for years. They have no reason to be there.”

“All the more reason for them to be there, actually,” Edelgard corrects. “It’s fairly isolated, blocked off from the rest of Adrestia by the Morgaine Ravine, and we’ve left the Rusalka and Boramas territories alone since ancient times. I imagine they have more space there than anywhere else in Fódlan, giving them more freedom and resources to gather and bolster their forces.” She pauses, then looks up to meet Jeritza’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Jeritza,” she says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “If you do not wish to go, then of course I will find someone else. Hubert should still be familiar with the area—”

“No, I… it is fine,” Jeritza grunts, looking away. “I am not so novice as to let personal feelings get in the way of business. But what exactly is the scope of the mission?”

Edelgard nods. “Yes, right,” she says, clearly relieved. “Reports say there’s been increasing activity in the area, which is rare considering it has long since been abandoned, and when we sent some scouts there they spotted Agarthans and sensed dark magic heavy in the air. Of course, since there will be a much larger number of them to deal with, you will not be without help,” she adds, turning around and sifting through some papers on her desk.

Companions? Byleth and Jeritza exchange an unsure look. More manpower is always good, of course, but they’ve also always worked best with just the two of them together. “Who is it?” Byleth tentatively asks. It will probably be Hubert, won’t it?

A sudden noise in the room cuts off whatever Edelgard might have said. Byleth turns around, thinking it might have been the cat doing something, but realizes the noise had sounded more similar to that of the static before a Thunder spell. “An ambush?” Jeritza hisses, having obviously reached the same conclusion. “Edelgard, get down. Byleth, the window—”

“Both of you, calm down,” Edelgard says, looking exhausted already. “It’s no ambush attack. Can you hear us?”

Byleth means to ask if she’s alright, because of course Byleth can hear her, but then that static noise comes again — and then, to his complete and utter distress, he hears a disembodied voice. “Hello? Ah, yes, there you are. This place of yours is so big it’s making a mess of the connection. Have you ever considered cutting down on at least one wing of the palace, in consideration for both this spell and for the next time I have to come visit? It is always such a hassle to walk for over ten minutes just to get to the restroom, you know.”

Jeritza looks frozen in place, like the mix of shock and confusion has rendered him immobile. There’s clearly some sort of magic involved, that much Byleth can tell, but he doesn’t even get the chance to ask further before a different, but still disembodied, voice pipes up. “Good morning, Your Majesty! It has been a while, has it not? Have you missed me? Where are Sir Hubert and Lady Lysithea? I would very much like to show them how my magic has improved!”

“That… Those voices…” Jeritza leans back against the wall, then seems to think better and lowers himself down to sit on the floor entirely. The cat meows in delight and crawls into his lap. “Are you telling us…?”

Edelgard nods. “Hubert specializes in stealth and offense, but you two are already a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. Therefore, someone who leans more on supporting should be of more help, yes?” Then, speaking to the air, “Linhardt, you can even heal from afar now as long as you’re connected with this… telepathy spell, right?”

Linhardt’s long sigh translates into crackling static, enough that Byleth feels the hair at the back of his neck rise. “Well… yes. Ugh, really, _why_ must this have to happen _again,_ I have had enough of being even indirectly close to the battlefield for lifetimes…”

“Linhardt?” Byleth hesitantly calls. He has no idea where to look, so he stares up at the ceiling instead, probably looking like an idiot. “Is that you? But… how?”

“Ah, Professor.” Byleth thinks he can hear the lazy smile in Linhardt’s voice. “Do you like it? I started research for a long-distance communication spell before, but got too lazy to continue it until Valentine insisted taking it up again. I’m afraid I can’t help with fighting, though, since currently only faith magic can be transmitted through this magic… ah, wait, what were we talking about a while ago?”

“You’ll be helping them on their mission by serving as our communication link, Linhardt,” Edelgard says, before the conversation can go any more off-track. “For that, I think it’d be more convenient if you came here to the palace once I ask you to do so, unless you can establish multiple links at once?”

“Don’t even think about it. The mental strain that would have on me is too much to consider, even for the empire’s best pastries,” Linhardt sighs. “Suppose I’ll just have to go there myself. Urgh, what a hassle.”

“Right, very well,” Edelgard agrees, looking like she’d expected such an answer. “Truly, apologies for the inconvenience. You will all be properly compensated. Byleth, Jeritza, the gold has already been sent to your house.”

“The… gold?” Jeritza repeats, sounding nonplussed.

“We are still preparing things, so we’ll contact you again before the mission. Don’t worry, you’ll be given ample time for preparations as well,” Edelgard barrels on. Then she smiles, a little weary but entirely genuine. “Thank you again, all of you. Really. I wish I could go there myself, but…”

“It’s alright,” Byleth reassures once more. “It wouldn’t do for the emperor to be on the battlefield anyway, even if she’s capable of protecting herself.” Fódlan would just be thrown into yet more political turmoil if Edelgard were to be spotted gone from her throne and accused of avoiding her duties. It sounds inane when he thinks of it that way, but after spending enough time with self-important government officials and news reporters in the unfortunate past, Byleth thinks he understands how they can twist situations as easily as they can twist others’ words.

Jeritza sighs, already looking tired. “Shall we go?” he asks, while Edelgard and Linhardt converse more. “This has altogether been a draining morning. I already want to eat lunch.”

Byleth laughs softly. “Yes, yes, of course. Come on, let’s go find Ciel. I hope they won’t find their room at home too small now…”

Ciel makes sure to circle the entire Imperial Palace in order to say goodbye to everyone: Hubert just nods, Ferdinand almost breaks into tears, Lysithea lets them borrow some books despite knowing full well there is no way they will be able to return it within two weeks, and Bernadetta gifts them a little potted flower with vibrant blue petals. “Here! It matches your eyes,” she says, cheerfully. “It’s a rare specimen from Almyra that sucks nutrients from meat, but as long as you treat it kindly and feed it often, it won’t eat your fingers!”

Jeritza stares down at the plant, as if considering ways on how to silently throw it out of a window as soon as Ciel looks away. Ciel, on the other hand, looks touched beyond belief. “Thank you, Bernie,” they whisper, hugging Bernadetta’s middle for a long moment before pulling away, the pot cupped in their hands. “Will take good care.”

Hubert Warps them back to their sleepy village, and leaves after telling them to expect him back sometime within next month — far too soon for their tastes, but Byleth supposes the quicker they leave, the quicker they can come back as well. Ciel runs around the house, unbothered by how the cramped space is a stark contrast to the overwhelming vastness of the Imperial Palace, and insists on having Bernadetta’s potted plant in their room rather than in the garden. Probably for the best, since Byleth’s seen some of the village children poke around in their garden sometimes to play with the cats, and he’d really rather not have a carnivorous plant causing any unwanted accidents for them.

“I heard Luca can do dark magic,” Ciel says, in between the rest of their rushed, excited chatter. It seems like they’ve been holding back on telling Byleth and Jeritza about everything they’d gotten up to during the week they were apart. “Can I do that too?”

Jeritza frowns. “I would not recommend it. It can be… detrimental to the body.”

“Detri… what’s that mean.”

“Bad for you,” Byleth explains, succinctly. “You can already do faith magic, can’t you, Ciel? That’s good enough for now. You should aim to improve on that first.”

“Eh…” Ciel droops. “I guess. But Hube and Lysi can do dark magic too. And they said Jeri can too!” They look over at Jeritza, their expression almost accusatory. Perhaps it would be more intimidating if they weren’t at the tender age of six years old — seven? when _is_ their birthday, anyway? — because Byleth can only find them adorable. “If it’s bad for you, then you should stop too.”

Jeritza raises his hands in both a placating and defensive gesture. “I, er, never really use it much anyway… Please stop looking at me like that.”

Ciel turns their accusatory gaze on Byleth instead. “Are you leaving soon again?” they ask, although it sounds more like they’re demanding an answer. “Bring me next time. It gets lonely without Ave in the palace…”

“But… you see her at school everyday,” Byleth points out.

“Tch,” Ciel mutters.

“…From whom did you pick that one up from?” It was probably Hubert or Lysithea, if Byleth’s judging purely based off the facial expression Ciel is making: some sort of mix of disgust, disdain, and distaste. Truly, only someone like Ciel can perfectly copy an emotion so complex and complicated… and… this probably isn’t something to be proud of, is it.

Ciel returns to sulking. “I can’t go with?”

“It is dangerous,” Jeritza says, stroking the top of their head like he would with a cat between its ears. Ciel even leans into his touch the same way. “Maybe when you are older… although by then I hope there will be no more of this rebellion business anyway. I do not remember it being this much of a headache back then.”

Byleth scratches his cheek. “It’s probably just because we’ve grown used to…”

“Doing nothing?”

“Well, I was going to say _peacetime,_ but I suppose that works too.”

“How about this instead,” Jeritza tries to bargain, when Ciel continues sulking. “Do you want to bring Aveline to the Imperial Palace next time? Her parents would not mind… would they? If they do, that is their problem.”

“No, it’s definitely not,” Byleth sighs. “Also, it really isn’t our place to be inviting others into the palace. You make it sound like a tourist location.”

Jeritza frowns. “It is not?”

“It…” Well, if Byleth thinks about it, the Imperial Palace _is_ one of the most important landmarks and establishments in all of Fódlan, and it’s also usually the first place foreigners — er, by that he means foreign ambassadors, of course — go to whenever they visit — for official business, of course. There’s also the sprawling garden Bernadetta has tended to for the past few years… and the vast library Lysithea has been consistently contributing to… is the Imperial Palace really _not_ a tourist spot?

He tries to imagine Aveline in there, however, and winces at the mental image of her running wild and wreaking havoc in the corridors alone. “Ciel, what do you think?” he asks weakly. “Aveline’s parents seem like the protective type. I don’t think they’d let her go.”

Ciel shakes their head. “Ave’s dad would cry if he ever got to see the palace.” Then they scowl. “But he’s not invited anyway. Only Ave.”

Byleth’s not sure what he expected. “Never mind, let’s… think about this when we need to,” he says, glad Jeritza hums in agreement. In the meantime… he takes a quick look around the house, and sighs when he spots the thin layer of dust over almost everything. “It looks like the only chore Hubert bothered to do was to send Ciel to and from school. Jeritza, do you remember where our cleaning supplies were…”

After the week of traveling and fighting and general excitement, it feels nice to relax and do household chores again, strange as that may sound for a previous war soldier. Byleth goes to the market for Jeritza to teach Ciel how to chop vegetables for lunch — despite their excellent knifework in other, non-cooking related matters, it does not go well — and they tend to the neglected garden for most of the afternoon. The cats, having been lonely for most of the past week, crowd their feet and fight for territory over their ankles. There’s laundry to do and more supplies to buy, and just the thought of having their biggest worry for now be the weather for tomorrow has Byleth sighing in contentment.

“Soft,” Jeritza mutters.

“Mm?”

“We’ve grown soft,” he elaborates. “In the past, I would have been suspicious of only having been on the road for one week. Now I feel terribly relieved we still have another month before we must leave again.”

Byleth smiles and settles on the couch beside him. Ciel has coaxed their favorite calico cat from the garden to inside the house and is rolling around with it on the floor. “I don’t see the problem there, personally.”

“Truly?” Jeritza frowns. “You do not find it a bit… shameful? To grow this distant from the battlefield, when once it was all we knew?”

“That…” When he puts it like that, it does sound a bit… unprofessional, for a former mercenary and a former Death Knight to shy away from battle, or at least tire of it. But what sort of life is composed entirely of fighting anyway? How on earth does a victory in battle compare at all to watching Ciel begin to talk more, first with just single, simple words and then on to phrases and sentences — how does earning gold from ending lives somehow win over earning gold from selling hard-caught fish at the local market? If Byleth had been given a choice, between the war and this home, he’s not sure he would have been able to resist.

It’s selfish, unreasonable, and more than a little foolish. Hundreds of people would almost certainly choose to stay out of the war, to never have to experience the violence and bloodshed and relive those days over and over in their dreams for the next several nights, whether the war itself was won or lost. But is it so wrong, to want peacetime for yourself, even if the world may be raging on around you? Is it so wrong to wish for Father to still be alive, for Sothis to still be with him, and to have Jeritza and Ciel together with them too?

“It… It doesn’t matter,” Jeritza says, pulling Byleth out of his thoughts — which, he realizes, had been drifting further and further from the initial topic, embarrassingly enough. “I was simply thinking aloud. Are you alright?”

“I’m… fine,” Byleth says, blinking. “I was also just thinking. But are you really that bothered by it, Jeritza?”

Jeritza frowns lightly. “Well… not so much anymore, no…” He sighs and shakes his head, leaning his head on Byleth’s shoulder. “I suppose I simply wonder what the people who once knew me would say if they could see who I am now,” he mumbles. “Like that man.”

 _That man?_ Byleth almost asks, confused, before realizing Jeritza must mean his father — no, Count Bartels. While Jeritza seems relaxed sitting next to him right now, Byleth has no idea what to say or how to continue the conversation — the topic of Count Bartels has always been much like a sea of landmines, a field Byleth has never dared step foot in for too long lest he run the risk of blowing himself up.

But… eventually it is something they will have to talk about, isn’t it? Byleth doesn’t want to stay ignorant about Jeritza’s childhood for the rest of their lives together. Even if they need not speak about Count Bartels, just knowing how he was when he was younger is enough to satiate Byleth’s curiosity.

He knows there are times when to bring things like these up, though, and now is not one of them. Byleth says nothing, opting to place a hand atop Jeritza’s head instead and gently comb the long blonde strands. He’s waited this long; he hardly minds waiting a little longer.

Throughout that month of relaxation they get, they discover two very important things.

The first very important thing: Ciel is absolutely _awful_ at lances.

A week or so after returning from the Imperial Palace, they’d finally demonstrated being able to lift up a lance nearly twice their height for ten minutes instead of the sad three-and-a-half they had mustered before — Byleth has a feeling Ferdinand is involved somehow — and so Jeritza had immediately started training them, albeit at a much slower pace than he had established with Aveline. And while an elated Ciel had done their best… well…

They’d initially attributed the frequent mistakes and inability to follow instructions as a result of them having grown too used to how handling knives is starkly different from handling lances, but after nearly two weeks of nothing but failure and Ciel’s only success being in holding the lance at all, Byleth had to admit they could no longer lie to themselves about, well, this. “It’s no use,” he eventually whispers, when Ciel isn’t paying attention. “Jeritza, I don’t want to say it, but…”

Instead of protesting this ‘slander’ against someone ‘clearly brimming with potential’ like he has been for the aforementioned past two weeks, Jeritza only slumps against the wall behind him with a sigh. “I do not want to say it either, but I fear you are right,” he grumbles. “Even I cannot deny it for this long. And I like to think I am not so terrible a teacher as for my student to not have understood the lesson for two consecutive weeks. But how could this be? My own child… _unskilled?_ With the _lance?_ ”

“Is it that big a problem?” Byleth wonders aloud.

Jeritza stares at him. “Imagine if they were unskilled with the sword, then.”

“Ah…” Byleth can’t help the pang of pain in his chest, more out of some strange, probably misplaced, sense of guilt than anything at not being a good enough instructor to teach Ciel properly. “W-Well, we may as well find that out now, actually. Ciel, come here, let’s try something new.”

Ciel looks down at the lance in their hands. “I’m… doing bad?”

“No! No, no, no, no,” Byleth babbles. “Just, er, well—we should test out different weapons and see what you’re best at, that’s all. Here, try this sword.”

The second very important thing: Ciel is absolutely _excellent_ with swords.

At first Byleth just thinks they take to it easily because it’s more similar to a knife than a lance is, but as they move on from basic movements to actual techniques against a well-worn training dummy, it quickly becomes clear that Ciel isn’t just better at it than with lances—they have a natural affinity for swords, to the point that Byleth wonders how this is possible. Had they been taught some swordsmanship before?

Jeritza, of course, sulks about it for all of two minutes before he grows curious enough to return to the still-training Ciel. “I have never seen someone as used to the movements as they are,” he remarks. “Is this… normal? Byleth, were you like this when you were a child?”

Byleth scratches his cheek. “How do you expect me to remember that…”

Ciel beats the training dummy around a bit more before looking up at the both of them, looking rather pleased with themselves, albeit there’s only the smallest of changes in their expression. “This is easy.”

“Easy, you say…” Jeritza stares down at them. “But the lance is difficult?”

Ciel grumbles under their breath and nods. “‘Cause Byle always uses swords.”

“Huh?” Byleth points at himself. “Me?” Now that he thinks about it, while the Scythe of Sariel had been reluctantly classified as a lance by the blacksmith, it can’t really be called one at all. It was made for slicing and cutting rather than thrusting and jabbing, and so of course Jeritza wields it in a manner different from that of regular lances. Even if Ciel watches Jeritza train with it all day, they’d only be able to emulate the techniques needed to use the scythe, not a lance. But with swords, on the other hand…

“So the blame is on me for not using a more normal weapon,” Jeritza muses.

“That… Even so, we already tried teaching them basic lance movements, so…”

“At least there is that girl,” Jeritza mumbles, probably talking about Aveline. “Honestly, children. Lances are much more sensible than swords. Even their lower durability is not a problem if you take out all your opponents in one hit…”

“Jeritza,” Byleth sighs, “I think that only applies to you.”

And so, in addition to their knives, Ciel brings a sword over to the garden for their daily morning training. Byleth had half-expected Ciel to give up on knives once they started on other, more traditional weapons, but somewhat surprisingly they only work harder to grow accustomed enough to both knife and sword that they hardly need to think anymore when switching from one to the other. “I like it,” Ciel says, when Byleth asks about them one day. “I think they’re neat.”

“Knives?”

“Yeah.” Ciel twirls one between their fingers. If Byleth tried that, he’s ashamed to say he’d at least scratch himself once or twice, but though the blade comes close to Ciel’s skin several times, they remain unhurt. “Small an’ sneaky. If anyone tries to surprise Byle and Jeri from behind…”

They don’t finish the sentence, but they do lunge forward and stab the training dummy in the back, which gets the message across fairly well. Byleth feels both touched and unnerved.

Between gardening, training, and several spars between an ecstatic Aveline and sword-wielding Ciel, the month passes by almost too fast, Byleth hardly realizes it’s already time for them to begin preparations for their next mission until they receive a sleek, black raven bearing a letter from Hubert. Calling it a letter would be an extreme exaggeration, though, as tied to the raven’s leg is but a single sheet of blank parchment. It would be ominous if Byleth and Jeritza both aren’t already used to Hubert and who he is as a person.

“You’re leaving already?”

“Oh, you’re here.” Jeritza looks away from the raven perched on the windowsill and looks down at Ciel instead, who had been peering in their room from the ajar door. “We should still have a week before Hubert returns here to bring us to the palace. Are you looking forward to seeing the rest there again?”

“I do miss Bernie…” Ciel pouts and crosses their little arms. “But you’ll be leaving me again.”

Byleth finishes scribbling a ‘reply’ to the ‘letter’ — by that he means he writes ‘OK’ on the blank parchment and decides that’s already more than what Hubert usually gets — and turns to face Ciel as well. “It might be a bit longer than last time,” he admits, “but I promise we’ll come back, and that’s what matters. Besides, you won’t be alone. Aside from Bernadetta and the rest…”

“Ah, yes. The boy is there too,” Jeritza remembers. “Luca, was it? He’s your age. You two should get along.”

Ciel looks unsure. “Will try,” they promise. It’s better than nothing, Byleth supposes. “But you have to come back fast too. Next time I’ll be good enough at swords and go fight too.”

“You are doing nothing of the sort,” Jeritza says, but he sounds too fond for either Ciel or Byleth to take him seriously.

They spend the week preparing for the journey — cleaning weapons, buying supplies, trying to convince Ciel not to actually bring Aveline along to the palace — and when the first morning after that week comes, Hubert is already standing at their doorway, leaning against the wall and watching some of the cats lazing in the garden. “Good morning,” Byleth greets, a little nonplussed. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in for some breakfast?”

Hubert just stares at him. “Shall we get going?”

Ciel peers out the door. “It’s pancakes.”

After grudgingly having some slightly-burnt pancakes for breakfast, Hubert Warps them to the entrance hall of the Imperial Palace; Edelgard is already there, pacing back and forth, to no one’s surprise. “Ah, good morning,” she greets, striding over to the four of them as soon as they arrive. “Ferdinand is at the armory should you need any help with your weapons, and you are of course free to make use of any of the other facilities in the palace. We will be departing at noon, after lunch.”

She speaks so briskly that Byleth barely understands anything aside from, thankfully, the last part. “Noon? Why not now?” He’s not particularly eager to go on the mission, but then this means they’d woken up earlier than usual for nothing. Does this at least mean he can catch a nap in their room before they leave, though?

Edelgard sighs. “I initially planned for you to proceed in the morning as with last time, but I… failed to take Linhardt into consideration. He never does anything before noon unless one prepares a bribe, unfortunately, and his disciple is not experienced enough to Warp all the way here on his own…”

“Disciple?” Jeritza says, before realizing. “Oh. The child. What sort of child can perform a spell of that caliber anyway?”

Hubert massages his forehead. “Just the other day, the one you two brought back did exactly that.”

“…Excuse me?” Byleth weakly manages.

“That’s right,” Edelgard sighs again. “Luca — you do remember him, yes? He’s been dutifully studying under Lysithea’s tutelage, but… well, it’s a little too much, if you ask me. As Hubert said, he tried out the Warp spell after seeing Lysithea do it a few times to get food delivered to her room, and he ended up halfway across Enbarr… before that, he tried casting a Heal spell on an injured stray in the courtyard and accidentally just poisoned it instead, and Bernadetta had to console him for hours… before _that,_ he was helping Ferdinand in the stables but got startled by one of the pegasi and cast a Mire spell on _himself…_ ”

She shakes her head. “In short, we’ve got our hands full with him, and there are already five of us taking care of him. In our defense, it’s not like we’ve ever had to deal with children his age before.”

“Despite his prowess for magic, I am starting to wonder if he has the potential to ever stop being frightened of his own shadow,” Hubert dryly remarks. “Perhaps he and that protege of Linhardt’s could be good friends. Using their magic for everyday use rather than stepping anywhere near a battlefield…”

Byleth exchanges a look with Jeritza. He hadn’t imagined Luca might be this difficult to handle — it wasn’t like he was _that_ much of a problem while they were on the way back from Fhirdiad with him, after all, but then maybe the whole bandit incident pales in comparison to the sorts of things Byleth and Jeritza themselves got up to when they were younger. “Er… our apologies?” Byleth hesitantly offers. Now he feels a bit guilty, especially considering Ciel takes care of themselves well enough even without either of them around.

Edelgard smiles. “Oh, no, don’t apologize. I suppose I just wanted to tell you about him. But he does seem to be getting a bit more skittish these days?” She glances at Hubert, who only shrugs. “I suspect it’s got something to do with when Linhardt and his, er, disciple came around the other day. The two really did become… well. Anyway, speaking of Linhardt, does he _ever_ plan on waking up this time…”

Byleth really does end up taking a nap in their room, while Ciel runs around the Imperial Palace as if to refamiliarize themselves with the place. Jeritza had meant to just look around in the armory for a bit before joining Byleth in the room, but once Ferdinand starts talking, there is unfortunately no escape, and afterwards he gets roped in to helping Bernadetta in the garden too. By the time he manages to slip out of the garden and into the room, he only gets to spend a few minutes flopped on the bed before Byleth has to drag him out and into the dining room.

Linhardt is already there, sharing a plate of pastries with Lysithea. More surprising is the other one sitting beside him; Valentine lights up when he sees them enter the room. His tousled hair only looks messier since the last time they’ve met. “Sirs Byleth and Jeritza! An honor to see you again!” He hurries over towards them, bows, then looks at Ciel. “And this is… I don’t believe we’ve met?”

Ciel regards him coolly, an expression Byleth hadn’t thought them capable of until now. They had mostly been shy and wary of strangers, not… whatever this is. “Ciel.”

Valentine nods, his expression solemn. “Ciel. A wonderful name. I am Valentine, chosen apprentice of the esteemed—”

Linhardt cuts him off with a sigh. “Later, please, if you absolutely must.”

“The esteemed Professor Linhardt von Hevring,” Lysithea finishes for him, snickering under her breath. “I have to say, with all the researching you do, it’s a bit of a surprise you aren’t an official professor of anything yet. But esteemed? That, I can argue with.”

“I would so very much enjoy an argument between you and this one,” Linhardt says mildly, once Valentine reluctantly plops himself back in his seat beside Linhardt. Like Ciel, he’s almost too short for his chin to reach the edge of the table.

Valentine pouts. He opens his mouth as if to argue already, before seemingly thinking better of it and switching tones. “Where’s — ahem, may I ask for the, uh, the… whereabouts of Luca?” he says, smiling up at Lysithea. “I recently discovered a new spell that I thought he might find interesting! Is he here?”

Lysithea and Linhardt exchange a look. “He’s sleeping,” Lysithea says.

“What?” Valentine whines.

“Sleeping,” Lysithea repeats. Behind her back, Hubert silently passes her a plate of food, which she touches with her index finger before it disappears, presumably Warped away to Luca’s room. Byleth watches the swift exchange and feels eternally glad neither he nor Jeritza have to be the ones doing that. “He’s very tired, so don’t bother him today.”

Valentine’s pout deepens, but he obediently drops the topic and moves on to chatter about something else instead. Byleth makes sure he’s not paying attention before turning to Bernadetta sitting beside him. “May I ask… does Luca dislike him or something?”

Bernadetta cracks a weak smile. “Ah? Ahaha, well, I don’t know about ‘dislike,’ but… the thing is…”

“Let me guess,” Jeritza says blandly, from Byleth’s other side. “He’s too much for the boy to handle.”

Bernadetta winces. “Really, Valentine means well! I think. It’s just, um, Luca, he’s…”

“A bit like you from before?” Byleth suggests. Bernadetta laughs and can’t seem to deny it.

Unfortunately for Luca, he happens to pass by outside the dining hall at the same time one of the palace staff open the doors to leave, and Valentine’s eyes lock onto him instantly — rather unsurprising, as the boy’s all-black ensemble stand out against the red carpet and white walls. “Luca!” he shouts. Byleth is glad for his sake that most of the people gathered to eat don’t care about dining etiquette, else he would have been in for the scolding of his life right now. “There you are! Did you just wake up?”

“Don’t—” Linhardt sighs when Valentine jumps off his seat and races towards a paling Luca, who takes off down the corridor faster than Byleth had been expecting from him. “Ugh, there he goes again. Well, at least I don’t have to look for him later if we’re going to be staying here for the duration of the mission anyway.”

Ciel peers curiously up at him, and Byleth belatedly realizes Ciel’s never met Linhardt either. “He’s Linhardt,” Byleth introduces, though Linhardt’s already returned to his food. “He knows how to do magic like yours too.”

“I’m not teaching anyone,” Linhardt instantly says.

Ciel looks annoyed, something Jeritza snorts at. Now that Byleth thinks about it, Ciel has been changing bit by bit — they’d usually hide away from strangers and new people, but now they seem to regard others with an air of disdain now. It takes Byleth a long, horrible moment to realize the behavior reminds him an awful lot like _Hubert_ — damn it, he knew they shouldn’t have left their child in here… well, the damage has been done, he supposes. And while disdain isn’t very polite, Byleth thinks he might prefer that over shyness.

After lunch, they gather at the entrance hall; Ciel hugs Byleth’s leg and squeezes Jeritza’s hand before running into their room, probably not wishing to see them leave. Valentine is the complete opposite, bouncing on his heels and jabbering on about the intricacies of the Warp spell while Linhardt nods absently and corrects him every once in a while; Luca is nowhere in sight, and Byleth vaguely hopes he had managed to escape to somewhere nice and isolated. Edelgard and Hubert are poring over maps together, muttering under their breaths and pointing out inconsistencies between the various designs.

“Are you prepared?” Hubert eventually asks, after finalizing things with Edelgard and walking over to them. Byleth touches the sword at his side, more out of habit than anything, while Jeritza simply nods. “Remember, this may not be as simple a mission as the last one had been,” Hubert reminds them. “Our only consolation is that you will have a telepathic link to us throughout such, but other than that we cannot afford to provide any other reinforcements. I myself have to be off right after this…”

“Where will you go?” Byleth asks, genuinely curious.

Hubert frowns. “I will have to make a quick round through Faerghus with Lysithea. There are still traces of dark magic left behind by runaway Agarthans all throughout the region. While you two tackle the problem at its core, we will keep it from spreading too far. Now, are you truly ready?”

“Be careful,” Edelgard offers. “Once again, I wish I could accompany you, but…”

“No need,” Jeritza says, waving her off. “Anyone else would only be a burden, really.”

Byleth massages his forehead. Not for the first time, he is eternally grateful the people around here are those who are only too used to Jeritza’s… straightforwardness, he supposes, is a nice way of putting it. Edelgard rolls her eyes, but she smiles as she gestures for Hubert to proceed, and Hubert says nothing as he lifts his hands up for the Warp spell.

Valentine scurries over to watch closer, big green eyes sparkling in awe. “Ah! This magic differs greatly from the professor’s! I see, so there are bits of dark magic mixed in the spell despite there being no need for it…”

“What is with this child,” Hubert grumbles, right before the magic envelops Byleth and Jeritza and obscures their vision.

Byleth has unfortunately begun to grow accustomed to the dizzying sensation again, enough that he only wobbles slightly before regaining his balance when they rematerialize in the target location. He’s never been close to the Boramas or Rusalka area before, with the Morgaine Ravine being in the way and him generally just never having had business there in the past, but he hadn’t been expecting lush greenery and the immediate weight of humidity.

“Is this… the rainforest?” Jeritza murmurs aloud, taking a cautious step forward. A twig snaps, and a squirrel retreats into the underbrush nearby, but that seems to be it for any signs of life in the area — there is no birdsong overhead, and only the weakest of breezes rustles the leaves and grass around them. “I almost do not recognize it. Why does it feel so…”

“Empty?” Byleth suggests. At Jeritza’s grim nod, Byleth can only frown. “They do say animals are more sensitive to changes in the atmosphere than regular humans. If the Agarthans are really here, they would have fled from the dark magic immediately. In any case, where should we start looking?” He’s never been in a rainforest before, but he already knows he isn’t a fan of how his skin is starting to feel sticky and damp.

Jeritza glances around the area, eyes narrowed, then nods. “If the Morgaine Ravine is over there… this way. We should be able to reach the edges of Rusalka territory from here.”

There isn’t even a path where they are right now, but Byleth doesn’t argue and follows a step behind Jeritza — every step the other man takes is decisive and unhesitating, as if he still perfectly remembers the layout of the forest even after over a decade since the last time he had been in this place. Eventually a narrow stream comes into view, the bubbling water the only other sound in the area, and Jeritza wordlessly follows it until, surprisingly enough, they come across footprints aside from theirs left behind on the mud. “Here.”

“Here?” Byleth repeats. Then he winces. “Oh. Here.”

This isn’t their first time tracking targets and marks down, for obvious reasons, but Byleth has never liked the process much, and to search for someone in a rainforest like this? He’d collapse of heat and exhaustion before they even get anywhere close. He sighs. “Where do you think they went?” Judging by the footprints, spaced apart and printed deep in the mud, it looks like they may have been in a hurry, enough to forget to clear their prints…

Jeritza jerks his chin in what Byleth first assumes is a random direction. “There. Do you see it?”

“See…” Byleth blinks, and stares at where Jeritza is gesturing at. It… looks like it had once been a dirt path, possibly for traveling merchants and the like, but time and weather has long eroded it despite what must have been multiple failed attempts at reconstruction, turning it into an indescribable mess on the forest floor. “Ah. Is that… truly meant to be a path?”

Even Jeritza looks embarrassed. “It was, once. Would you believe me if I said it looked even worse before?” He steps forward and kicks a pile of leaves to the side, revealing what looks like the roots of a giant tree, except the tree doesn’t seem to be anywhere in sight. “Ah. This is a plant that grows underground,” he explains, upon seeing Byleth’s baffled expression. “Unless dug up, only its roots are visible to us. Of course, digging it up would cause it harm, and so it lashes out at any unfortunate fools who attempt to do so.” He glances over at Byleth. “It may be hard, but please do not under any circumstances try to see what they look like.”

Byleth waves his hands before himself. “N-No, I wouldn’t dream of it… in any case, why—”

“Their roots are very sturdy, so do not worry about occasionally stepping on them,” Jeritza continues, apparently deaf to everything else right now. “You should instead watch out for the dull-colored flowers you will see on some bushes up ahead. They appear harmless but are instead extremely poisonous and will spread dangerous pollen in the air if touched. Only skilled botanists should be trusted with collecting the pollen and extracting ingredients required for a very rare antidote…”

Byleth listens blankly, nodding along whenever Jeritza looks over at him. He’s starting to see how Jeritza and Bernadetta get along now. “You sound very familiar with the environment here,” Byleth manages to say, in between Jeritza’s information dumping. “I’ve… never heard you speak about these sorts of things before, though.”

Jeritza pauses, then looks away. Is he shy about it or something? “It… is information not many other people would be interested in, nor know about,” he mutters. “Aside from Bernadetta. And Ciel, on occasion, but they too grow bored after a while.”

“I like it.”

“You…?”

“It’s another side of you,” Byleth says, smiling. “This is your birthplace, after all. Well, I don’t mean the rainforest specifically, but the general area… I just mean I do not know much of you from when you were younger.” He shrugs and looks around them — the poisonous, dull-colored flowers, the underground plants, the path that he cannot in good conscience call a path. “Even now, I still want to learn more about you, Jeritza. I do not think that will ever change.”

Jeritza is quiet at that, and he doesn’t respond, but the tinge of red on his cheeks is enough response for Byleth. They walk along the… path… in companionable silence for a while, taking detours every now and then to follow the occasional footprint, before Jeritza speaks again. “I would spend hours everyday in here,” he murmurs. “Not training, though. I would collect plants and flowers and compare them to the illustrations in the botany textbooks in the library. Before everything, I did not even wish to hunt down rabbits or squirrels.”

A Jeritza averse to killing even animals, a Jeritza who spent all his time not training or fighting but collecting plants and reading books… Byleth sighs. There is no turning back time — and even if he could still make use of Sothis’ power, it would be a time _far_ too long ago to return to — but somehow he still wishes he could have been there, could have done something for the younger Jeritza who had no one to turn to when Mercedes and their mother left. “What else?”

“My bedroom essentially became a greenhouse for a time,” Jeritza says dryly, to Byleth’s amused snort. “I did eventually clear it out and replanted the flowers and such back around here in the forest, since Count Bartels did not believe in maintaining a garden, the barbarian. I… am afraid I do not know what became of the rest I kept in my room after I left, however. They must have died by now.”

The conversation is rapidly sinking into depressing depths, and Byleth hurries to ask, “You did not try to nurse one of those underground-dwelling plants, did you?”

Jeritza colors as if caught red-handed. “A-Absolutely not. Do you take me for a fool? Hmph.”

He definitely did, something only further proven when he speeds up, nearly leaving Byleth in the dust. “Let us hurry,” he grumbles. “I have reminisced long enough in this accursed place. Over there — Rusalka will be just around the corner.”

As promised, Rusalka is but a few more minutes’ walk once they emerge from the rainforest, and Byleth takes in their surroundings with undisguised awe. He’s never been here before, and though he’s aware this isn’t a sightseeing tour, he can’t help but look around, distracted: like most of Adrestia, the temperature is hot and dry, but other than that it looks completely different from major cities like Enbarr and Fort Merceus. There are dirt paths instead of roads, and the largest building is just around the size of Ciel and Aveline’s school; Edelgard had not been lying when she mentioned having left this territory alone since ancient times.

On the contrary, Jeritza looks bored. “Nothing has changed,” he remarks idly, only giving their surroundings a token glance before looking away. “Come. It would be unwise to travel to Boramas now, so let us stay in an inn for the night and leave in the morning. Has Edelgard contacted you yet?”

“Oh, er, not yet,” Byleth says, shaking his head to pull himself together. Even in the past, he and the mercenaries had never received any jobs that required them to travel here — it really is distant from the rest of Adrestia, and Fódlan in general. “It should only be a few minutes, though, now that we’ve arrived.” Linhardt had previously explained that the telepathy connection spell is more easily disrupted in places he’s unfamiliar with, which is why he, Caspar, and Valentine had apparently took a little tour in here and in Boramas a few weeks ago. Byleth wishes he could be that laidback about missions.

As if on cue, he hears that now-familiar crackle of static, and though he still instinctively tenses in preparation for a Thunder spell, he now knows to relax afterwards when he hears Linhardt’s voice in his head. “Hello? Byleth, Jeritza, can you hear me?”

In a much louder, more deafening volume, Valentine shouts. “Hello! Hello! Please respond! Hello—”

“ _Shh._ You are going to explode my eardrums. And you are probably going to blow their heads up.”

“Wow! Really? Is there such a spell for that, Professor—”

“Hello, Linhardt, Valentine,” Byleth greets, nodding over at Jeritza. He’s scowling and massaging his forehead, which probably means he can hear them too. “We both hear you. We’ve just arrived in Rusalka, but you probably already know that.”

“Indeed I do,” Linhardt says, without a shred of shame. “Let me see… right, there weren’t as many reports in Rusalka as compared to Boramas. Well, I’ve established the connection spell, so I shall be off to sleep now. If you need anything, just shout.”

“Er, wait,” Byleth tries, but he hears a fizz of static again and Linhardt is gone. He isn’t even surprised anymore.

A different voice echoes in his head, thankfully less loud than earlier. “I will dutifully report anything that needs reporting!” Valentine cheerfully says. “This is all very interesting! I’ve made slight modifications to the spell — with the professor’s permission, of course — so I can see through your eyes right now, Sir Byleth. Rusalka is nothing like the rest of Adrestia, is it not? I was surprised when I first went there the other day with the professor and Cas — err, Sir Caspar! Did you know that historically, Rusalka and Boramas were…”

Everyone just seems to be racing to tell him everything about anything today, Byleth thinks. He lets Valentine ramble on until his voice fades into white noise, although Jeritza seems to be humoring him every now and then by telling him what sound like small details about the cities’ histories and such, based on how the conversation simply refuses to end. Thankfully, Valentine tires himself out and drops to sleep — so much for ‘dutifully reporting anything that needs reporting’ — just as Jeritza leads Byleth into what looks like a small, humble diner. “Here. I recommend this place.”

“Do you?” Byleth asks, amused.

“Indeed. The food is both affordable and decent. I am personally fond of the roasted pheasant…” Jeritza trails off, staring at him in confusion. “Yes? Why are you smiling?”

“No, no, just…” Byleth enters the diner, already understanding why Jeritza may like this place — it’s small and quiet, but its quaint size only makes it feel comfortable rather than cramped. A bard is crooning softly in the corner, strumming along on their harp. “I’ve never seen you this comfortable outside of our home. It feels like you’re taking me sightseeing, that’s all.”

Jeritza snorts. “Oh, is that so. I am afraid I am not a very good tour guide, though, and there are not many scenic spots in here, besides the rainforest. And I am afraid that place is more life-threatening than scenic…”

Byleth ends up getting the roasted pheasant, as per Jeritza’s recommendation, and finds himself enjoying it immensely — it takes time and ingredients to prepare at home, and most of the time he can’t really be bothered to put in the extra effort unless it’s for a special occasion. Jeritza makes comments the entire time, about how the dish had tasted even better before with the former chef, how the diner has since undergone construction and that it had been barely any larger than a cottage when he had been younger, so on and so forth; Byleth ends up only half-listening at some point, because something about the nostalgic shine in Jeritza’s eyes is more distracting than it ought to be.

At the inn — personally approved by Jeritza for their excellent breakfast service, of course — Edelgard contacts them through the telepathic connection, and Byleth does his best to make it sound like they hadn’t just been touring Rusalka for most of today. “We found some footprints in the rainforest we were sent to,” he tries, conveniently leaving out how he thinks those were probably just tracks left behind by some merchant in a hurry, “and, well… ah, right, there were also fewer animals than usual. The Agarthans’ dark magic might have driven them away.”

Edelgard makes a thoughtful noise that unfortunately gets transmitted as static. “I see, I see. Well, it is only the first day, so no need to rush. Bartels is… no longer noted on most maps of Fódlan,” she says, her voice quieting, “but it used to be located at the very tip of the Boramas territory, close to the sea. I suspect you will be encountering more Agarthans or finding more hints of them in Boramas as compared to here in Rusalka.”

Byleth nods. “Understood. We will report again tomorrow night.”

“Wait,” comes an unexpected voice. Byleth blinks, and Jeritza chooses that moment to exit from the bathroom, idly toweling his damp hair. “Byle… is Jeri there?”

“I am now,” Jeritza instantly says, taking several steps closer to where Byleth is seated at the edge of the bed. “Is that Ciel? What is it? Has something gone wrong? Are you alright?”

A pause. “Uh… no… just wanted to say hi.”

“Oh.” Jeritza breathes out a sigh of relief. Byleth really wonders why his mind seems to jump to the worst-case scenarios at any given moment. “Ah… well… hello.”

“Vale and Luca are really noisy,” Ciel tells them. “Or… just Vale. Not like his professor at all. And, a while ago, Bernie told me to fetch Luca to help with the garden, but when I tried to get him to follow me, he panicked like a baby and ran away. Do I look scary to him?” They sound suspiciously proud of themselves, before they cough and start speaking in their regular flat tone. “Ahem… an’way, I couldn’t find him after, so I told Bernie, and…”

Byleth and Jeritza listen to them go on and on about what had happened today — honestly, they remind Byleth far too much of Jeritza right now — until Ciel eventually starts yawning in between every other word. “Alright, that’s enough,” they hear Lysithea in the background saying. “Don’t you have a bedtime? It’s far too late for you to be up right now. Off to bed.”

“Wait, Lysi! Lysi is mean,” Ciel whispers. “I dunno why Luca likes her so much. But she lets Luca stay up whenever he likes, so this is unfair.”

“Did you hear me? _Bed._ ”

“Goodnight, Ciel,” Byleth says, amused despite Ciel’s disgruntled huff. “It is late, besides. We can talk again tomorrow, alright? Get to sleep now.”

“Eh…” Ciel sighs but relents. “‘Kay. _Fine._ ‘Night.”

“Goodnight.” Jeritza pauses, then adds, “If Lysithea is bothering you, you should—”

Byleth smacks a hand over Jeritza’s mouth. “We should be getting to sleep as well!” he hurries to say, ignoring Jeritza attempting to bite his hand. “See you, Ciel! Thank you for taking care of them, Lysithea.”

“I’m not paid enough for this,” Lysithea grumbles, right before the telltale static crackles and fades entirely.

Jeritza grabs Byleth’s wrist and easily tugs his hand off his mouth. “Rude,” Jeritza grunts. “I was simply going to suggest to set her hair on fire.”

“You _what?_ ”

“It would be suitable payback considering the amount of times she has done exactly that to me.”

Byleth nearly chokes on his laugh. “Lysithea set your hair on fire on a regular basis?” Well, she _was_ the only student who could do anything to the Death Knight, several years ago — he just hadn’t expected her to still not take him seriously when they became allies.

Jeritza looks disgruntled. “Now you know. In any case, getting to Boramas will not be as easy as traversing a rainforest, so please stay close to me at all times and listen carefully…”

Talk of business even so late at night. Byleth sighs and does his best to understand everything Jeritza says, but considering they’ve already gotten settled in bed, it’s only a matter of time before he’s dozing off — Jeritza’s voice can be soothing, after all, even if he is droning on about battle strategies and the landscape and terrain of the territory.

The next morning, they indulge in the inn’s breakfast service before setting off again; this time, Jeritza senses traces of dark magic in the air, though how he does that Byleth has no idea considering he doesn’t feel anything off at all, and they follow the faded path leading out of the city of Rusalka. Between here and Boramas is not a rainforest but rugged, sandy terrain instead, interspersed with strange ruins jutting from the ground like remnants of civilization even more ancient than that of Rusalka’s; Byleth inspects as close as he dares of what looks like a stone pillar, and though most of the intricate carvings have long since faded from time and weather, he can still make out symbols that resemble the words he sometimes sees on magical sigils.

“This area is widely believed to have been the home of a mysterious race not even the history books speak of,” Jeritza says, drawing Byleth’s attention away from the pillar. “Not much is known of them, for obvious reasons, as they largely kept to themselves and were completely uninvolved in the early activities of Fódlan. But it is commonly accepted that they were also the first to discover magic and its uses, which may explain why this area is also rich with magic everywhere one looks.”

Byleth frowns. “Then it makes even more sense for the Agarthans to take up base here, yes? Magic in the surroundings must enhance their own capabilities, or… something.” Sometimes he really wishes he had paid a bit more attention to Professors Manuela and Hanneman’s lectures on magic — he had only learned basic faith magic spells and stopped there, like every other irresponsible student.

“Mm.” At least Jeritza doesn’t seem unimpressed by his inference. “I am not too well-versed in magic myself… so I suppose that makes sense.”

Oh, that’s why. Byleth allows himself a sigh of relief that he isn’t here with people like Hubert, Linhardt, or Lysithea; he can already imagine the sort of face they probably would have made at him. “Let’s keep going?”

Fortunately, it doesn’t take too long to pass through the rest of the miniature desert; Byleth had been fairly sure that any longer in that place, the entire first layer of his skin would have been burnt clean off. The sun is already beginning to set when they finally step on grass and not sand, and even Jeritza sighs in relief — the chilly climate of Faerghus they’ve grown used to can’t compete with the dry heat in most of Adrestia. “It should only be a little further from here,” Jeritza says, nodding at a worn path winding through some woods. “We can decide how to go about the plan then.”

Byleth looks at him. “We have a plan?”

“I… was hoping you had come up with one along the way.”

Well, there goes that. Byleth laughs lowly and shakes his head. “Never mind, I’ll think of one now. But I have never been to Boramas before, so it largely depends on the layout of the city there…” He trails off, trying to imagine it. Considering their proximity, Boramas would likely be similar to Rusalka in layout, design, and architecture, which means there won’t be many hidden side-streets or alleyways for them to hide in, and he doubts the Agarthans would be taking up base in a large, modern building that would definitely draw attention to themselves…

Wait. He frowns. This feeling… “Jeritza.”

“I know.” Jeritza grabs his wrist, and they duck behind a nearby rock outcropping just before someone passes through the path they had just been walking towards.

One look and Byleth can already tell they’re an Agarthan; pale skin and mage robes aside, dark magic strong enough to be felt all the way from where they’re hiding emanates from their person like thick smoke. They don’t seem to be doing anything unusual, just walking down the path and idly assessing their surroundings, which must mean they’re a scout patrolling the area. “An Agarthan,” he mumbles. “But in plain sight? Since when did they get so brave?”

“Perfect.” Jeritza cracks his knuckles and draws his scythe. “We can extract answers out of them just like this. Give me a moment.”

“What? Wait, Je—”

But Jeritza has already sped out from the rock and is barreling towards the Agarthan at full speed, the blade of his scythe gleaming dangerously at his side. Byleth gives up on trying to rein him back and hurries over instead, just in time to witness Jeritza hitting the Agarthan’s head with the flat of his blade and knocking them out cold without so much as a yelp. Jeritza looks displeased. “What? I clearly used less than a sliver of my usual strength…”

Byleth shakes his head. “Well, I suppose this was the fastest way to neutralize them… but we can’t go into the city towing an unconscious Agarthan around. Shall we find somewhere else to stay first until they wake up?”

Jeritza nods. “Very well. There is a nearby cave that should serve the purpose.”

They carry the unconscious Agarthan between them to, as Jeritza promised, a small cave in the woods relatively hidden away from passersby. By the time they arrive it’s already dark, the sun nearly fully gone from the sky, and Byleth has to rely on his instincts rather than his sight to feel around in the cave. Jeritza has no such qualms, and moves like he could navigate this place with his eyes closed. “Here,” he instructs, after a moment of shuffling around in the dark. “Lay them down.”

Byleth does so without argument, unsurprised to feel a flat, slightly-elevated surface where he places the Agarthan on. “How are we going to keep them from casting any magic, though? I never learned the Silence spell, and experienced mages do not even need their hands to cast anything…”

“Not to worry. I will simply knock them out again,” Jeritza says, his tone completely serious. Byleth wants to point out that Agarthans have spells ready at their fingertips at any given time of the day, but decides it’s pointless trying to change his mind. If Jeritza says it works, it works. “Hm… it is a shame we could not have dinner in Boramas, because there is a tavern I would have liked to recommend… but I suppose we shall have to bear with this for now. At least this place has not been raided.”

“Raided?”

“Here.” Jeritza rummages around in the dark, and suddenly a light flickers to life. He’s holding a lantern in hand, and it isn’t the one they had brought along with them when they left the Imperial Palace. “Impressive. It still works… although the food likely is not of the same condition.”

Byleth only feels more and more confused. “Food…?” Then it occurs to him: “Wait, was this place…”

Jeritza nods. The faint light of the lantern is just barely enough to let Byleth see the flicker of nostalgia in his eyes. “I explored the woods… often in my spare time. And sometimes I simply did not want to go home when the sun set. This cave was not being used, so I furnished it with some basic necessities and… ah… made it my own.”

“So, a secret base,” Byleth summarizes. The idea is adorable, though less so when he realizes the reason Jeritza might not have wanted to return home is related to his father.

“No need to give it a label.”

“I’m right, though,” Byleth says, to Jeritza’s eye-roll.

They hunt down some rabbits to roast over a small fire that night, and the smell must wake the Agarthan up, because they begin to stir just as Byleth is about to take his first bite of food after a long day. Jeritza gets up, strides over to where they’re lying down, and grabs them by the throat without even letting them open their eyes first. “State your business in the area,” he growls, deep and threatening.

Byleth indulges himself in a bite of meat first, watching the poor Agarthan flail weakly in Jeritza’s unyielding grip, before standing up and joining him at his side. “They can’t answer if they can’t speak,” he points out.

Jeritza seems to mull the idea over in his head, before eventually saying, “Speak truthfully and we will refrain from brutally killing you.”

The Agarthan gives them several weak nods. Jeritza looks miffed but finally sets them down, by which he throws them against the hard cave wall to slide sadly down onto the ground. The Agarthan groans, massaging their throat and coughing harshly before glaring up at the two of them. “You… s-seriously! Is it a crime to go out on patrol?”

Their voice is like any other Agarthan mage, so raspy Byleth can practically hear the undercurrent of miasma in their words. “Patrol, huh,” he mumbles. “Tell us everything about yourselves. What are you doing in Boramas, exactly?”

“Hmph.” The Agarthan crosses their arms and turns away. “I have no obligation to answer you. Go ahead and take the truth from my cold, dead—”

Some three minutes later, the Agarthan is crumpled on the ground, wheezing, their forehead pressed to the cave floor. “I yield! I yield! Please spare me!” they choke out, clutching their chest as if to protect their heart. “I-I’m of a lowly position, I just follow orders, but I’ll tell you everything I know!”

Jeritza puts his scythe away, looking almost disappointed. “What, is that it? With how bold you were speaking, I thought you would have lasted longer.”

“Are you done already?” Byleth finishes off the last of his portion for dinner before getting up and giving the Agarthan a quick look. He should probably feel a bit guiltier about the whole interrogation process, but strictly speaking, this person had brought this upon themselves anyway. He also isn’t much for pity in the first place. “Alright. What do you know, then?”

Haltingly, the Agarthan begins to speak: to Byleth’s disappointment, though, most of the information is already knowledge they’re aware of, mostly that the few members who escaped the battle at Shambhala had scattered throughout Fódlan in an attempt to revive the organization. His chest twists at the mention of performing Crest experiments on children again, particularly those orphaned by the war, but aside from other miscellaneous cases of dark magic research and the like, it’s nothing Edelgard and Hubert hadn’t previously informed them about. “This doesn’t look promising,” Byleth murmurs, when the Agarthan is out of breath from rapid speaking. “They’re probably too low in the hierarchy to know anything useful. Shall we let them go and be done with it?”

Jeritza frowns. “Oh. You were going to let them go?”

It occurs to Byleth that they usually killed off captured Agarthans as soon as they were done with the interrogation. Such a practice seems unnecessary now, though, and more than a little troublesome — where would they hide the body, for one thing? “Hm…” He sighs. “Well, I suppose it would lessen the chances of us being discovered earlier than we’d like, but—”

“Wait!” the Agarthan cries. They’d been nearer than Byleth had noticed. “You’re going to k-kill me? I told you everything I know, I swear — wait! I can bring you directly to our headquarters in Boramas, how’s that? With our security there, you’d never reach it otherwise!”

“You underestimate our methods of breaching security, then,” Jeritza replies mildly.

“No, wait, it’s an interesting offer,” Byleth hurries to say, before Jeritza can make a grab for his scythe and finish the job. “We could probably still make it there ourselves, but it’d take too much time, wouldn’t it? And we want to head back as soon as we can, too.”

Jeritza gives his scythe a long, wistful look, then sighs. “That… is true,” he admits. “We shall leave first thing in the morning, then. I shall take first watch. If you,” he growls, turning to glare down at the cowering Agarthan, “dare do anything to try and escape or hurt either of us, know that you are essentially forfeiting the rest of your days. Understand?”

“I get it, so could you _please_ put the scythe away,” the Agarthan whimpers.

Jeritza digs out some bedding from deeper within the cave — it’s dirty and dusty, but it’s thick enough to keep the bumpy, uneven cave floor from destroying their backs, at least. The night feels shorter here than it does in Faerghus, but somehow several times colder, and Byleth laments the fact that neither of them can cuddle for warmth like they probably would if the Agarthan, dozing off in a corner of the cavern, weren’t here.

Thankfully morning comes quick, and the sunlight chases the worst of the chill away in a handful of minutes. The Agarthan leads them out of the thick woods at a decent speed, bringing them as far as the edges of Boramas before pointing at a random bush. “Search around there and you’ll find a hidden path that should take you straight to base,” they say. “I still need to make myself useful so my superior doesn’t ask why I was gone overnight… uh, please remember I definitely told you everything I know! Definitely don’t come chasing after me, okay?”

Fear makes people so simple, Byleth idly muses. “Sure,” is all he says, gesturing for the Agarthan to get on their way already, which they gladly do, disappearing into the underbrush without another word. “It’ll be fine,” Byleth says, when he sees Jeritza’s disgruntled expression. “We already know they’re easy to take care of, anyway. I have a feeling they’d run at the sight of you if we ever cross paths again.”

“Mm…” Jeritza just sighs. “Shall we mark this spot for later? Let me take you somewhere for breakfast first.”

“Ever the tour guide, I see.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Jeritza solemnly tells him.

As promised, Jeritza brings him to a diner before Byleth can take in much of Boramas’ architecture and layout — unlike the one they’d gone to in Rusalka, this place is almost certainly on the fancier scale, with lacquered wood shining everywhere he looks, a wine rack piled with glimmering bottles behind the counter, and a menu filled with names of foods Byleth can’t even hope to pronounce, largely because they’re written in the local dialect. Jeritza rattles each one off with perfect enunciation, to the awe of the employee waiting on them, and ends up ordering for Byleth when he sees the helpless look on his face.

“This place is an actual tourist restaurant, isn’t it,” Byleth observes. The telepathic communication had started up again a few minutes ago, and he can vaguely hear the fast, constant scratch of quill on parchment as Valentine presumably takes notes. Maybe he’s trying to learn the dialect here in Boramas from what few glances he’d gotten at the menu. “Are you sure we can afford the food here?”

“Not to worry, it’s very affordable,” Jeritza says, which would be more reassuring if he weren’t currently frowning down at their bag of gold. He catches Byleth staring at him, clears his throat, and tucks the pouch back inside his coat. “Anyway. More importantly, did you notice anything out of place? Is it any different from Rusalka?”

“Mm…” Byleth wants to say that Jeritza had been too eager for breakfast to let him notice much of anything, but decides that’d be too mean and untrue — he _had_ noticed something, small as it is. “It’s… quiet. Dreadfully so. It isn’t such an early hour of the morning that the people here wouldn’t already be awake and bustling around, but…” He chances a glance around the diner. There’s no one else around aside from the two of them and the staff milling near the counter, which is both relieving and unnerving. “Honestly, it’s almost like a ghost town.”

Jeritza’s gaze is dark. “I agree. Boramas has always been the liveliest city in this area, and thereby the most populated. It had never been this silent when I used to be here, and I doubt a few decades would have changed that so greatly.”

They finish their breakfast — Byleth can’t help but sniff for poisons, just in case, but enjoys the local specialty afterwards — then return to the hidden road the Agarthan had showed them earlier. It takes a bit of digging around and squinting at the overgrown grass, Jeritza muttering that his eyesight truly isn’t what it used to, but eventually they uncover the faint hints of a dirt path under all the fallen leaves and thorny bushes. “Oh. Traces of dark magic,” Linhardt says, his voice clearly sleepy even through the telepathic connection. “This at least confirms that Agarthan wasn’t just leading you astray.”

“Wise choice,” Jeritza says. “I would have tracked them down and—”

“Alright, you can stop there,” Byleth hurriedly interrupts, before Valentine can hear anything a child his age isn’t supposed to. Then again, Ciel has been exposed to much worse, but… it’s Ciel. It’s different. “Let’s go. We didn’t find anything out of place in Boramas itself, so most likely they’ve set up base somewhere outside the city.”

The path circles around the city for a while, stopping midway to split into three — one leads deeper back to the woods, one brings them to an empty warehouse in Boramas, and the last one heads further on. Byleth pokes around in the warehouse while Jeritza stands guard outside, but finds nothing of note, even after he gets Valentine to prod Linhardt awake and look around with him as well. There are the same traces of dark magic, according to him, but nothing particularly noteworthy enough to be suspicious of. “Most likely they used this base in the past but have since moved elsewhere.”

“Ugh…” Byleth looks down at his hands, palms nearly black from all the dust in the warehouse. In the past he wouldn’t even have blinked at this, but now he has to be conscious of any dirt on the hands he uses to cook lunch and dinner. It isn’t a problem now, obviously, but to Jeritza’s bewilderment Byleth insists on making a detour to the stream in the woods before continuing on the trail anyway.

“This path… it leads to the cliffs,” Jeritza says lowly, his brow furrowed and expression serious. Byleth nods — he’s been catching the smell of saltwater for a few minutes now. “This means they really are…”

He trails off, but Byleth doesn’t need him to speak any further. They exit the woods at last, the sun high up in the sky now: before them stands a tall fence of barbed wire stretching out to either direction, and past that, a veritable forest where the region of Bartels used to be.

“Jeritza.” Byleth speaks slowly, carefully. “I can go on ahead by myself. If anything happens, I—”

“Save your breath,” Jeritza says, not unkindly. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the scene before them since arriving, but the expression on his face is inscrutable and impossible to interpret. “Childhood memories are the last thing I will let hinder us in a mission. This old thing—” He gestures at the fence — “should hardly be difficult to break. Shall we?”

Byleth sighs. “You…” _don’t have to keep all your emotions bottled up inside all the time,_ he wants to say, but he catches the hard look in Jeritza’s eyes and decides this must just be his own way of staying calm.

They separate to follow the wire fence on either side, eventually finding a small, ragged hole where Byleth imagines children from Boramas might sneak through every now and then. One slice from Jeritza’s scythe cuts it wide open for them to walk right past, and though the dark magic here is heavy enough for both of them to feel, no alarms go off and no Agarthans come jumping out of the shadows to attack them. After a bit of mental prodding, Linhardt reluctantly tunes in once again to assess their surroundings. “Mm… nothing special yet,” he says, after a long, crackling silence. “This place is obviously in use, though. Head a bit deeper, I’m curious.”

“Curious?” Byleth repeats.

“Would love to see how the Agarthans have decorated their base. Have their interior design tastes changed since the fall of Shambhala?” After a long, uncertain silence, Linhardt sighs and says, “That was a joke. Get a move on.”

There are remnants of a civilization scattered everywhere: caved-in houses, fallen pillars, chunks of stone with deliberate shapes and carvings upon them. But most of it is buried underneath all the grass, leaves, and roots of trees towering over them, enough that Bartels looks more like a forest than the city it used to be. Compared to Boramas, it’s unexpectedly full of life here: birdsong fills the air, and a thin, bubbling stream snakes through the area, the faint shadows of fish beneath the crystal-clear water. Byleth picks his way through the undergrowth carefully, some blades of grass tall enough to reach just below his knees; he knows Jeritza had slaughtered everyone in his house that day, but to reduce Bartels into nothing more than a few ruins closed off from the rest of Fódlan by a flimsy fence…?

“They’re not here,” Jeritza murmurs, drawing Byleth’s attention back to him. They’ve walked for a while now, but Byleth has no idea where they are, only that they must be getting closer to the cliffside judging by how he can hear the crashing of waves in the distance. “They must be at the cliff’s edge, then. These… woods are thick enough to keep unwanted intruders out, if the fence did not do the job, but…”

“Shall we stop for lunch first?” Byleth suggests, when Jeritza trails off into silence. “It’s already past noon, and we’ve been walking for a while. If we try to face the enemy tired, it would only do us more harm than good.”

“Alright.” Jeritza scans their surroundings for a moment before setting his gaze on a peculiarly-shaped rock outcrop. “Over there.”

At first Byleth had assumed it was because the rock’s height would keep most of the sun’s heat out, but the closer they get, the more he realizes this rock does not look very much like a rock at all. Underneath all the moss, ivy, and other assorted climbing plants is a _house —_ it’s nearly unrecognizable as one anymore, but it’s standing upright and there’s even a small entrance that must have once been a doorway. The door itself is gone, likely eaten away by insects. “This is… I’m impressed this is still here,” Byleth says, carefully touching what little he can see of the house’s walls with one gloved finger. A termite skitters away from his hand, disappearing into one of the many cracks in the wood.

Jeritza is quiet, staring at the house. For a long while he only stands there, pale eyes shuttered and unreadable, and Byleth waits patiently beside him, observing what he can. He can hear vague shuffling sounds in his head, along with the unmistakable flipping of book pages, but other than that Linhardt is silent as well.

Then Jeritza closes his eyes, sighs, and moves forward. “Come in,” he says. A breeze blows past, rustling the plants hanging over the doorway and brushing stray strands of blonde hair out of Jeritza’s face.

They enter. Inside the house is even less of a house — grass has grown through the floorboards, climbing plants have completely obscured the walls, and a giant tree, bigger and taller than any of the others outside, has sprouted in the middle of the room and grown straight through the roof, its thick roots turning the ground bumpy and uneven before disappearing deep into the soil. Shafts of sunlight come in through the gaps in the roof above them, illuminating what would otherwise have been the dark interior. Byleth exhales heavily — despite what little remains of the original building, he can tell this had once been the estate of some noble judging by the general architecture, and it doesn’t take a fool to understand just which noble that must have been.

Jeritza heads straight for the base of the tree, giving it a critical eye before taking a seat on its roots, large and sturdy enough to support his weight. “It’s fine,” he says, when he catches Byleth giving the tree a wary look. “This variety is harmless to humans. Smaller animals, not so much… but there is no danger of being near it.”

“Ah, well… right,” Byleth murmurs, tentatively settling beside Jeritza on the tree roots. Is it just him, or did he feel it shift around a little just now? He tries not to think too hard about that. “This place… It’s… isn’t it?”

Jeritza snorts. “Very eloquent.”

“Ugh. Well, you know what I mean,” Byleth grumbles. “This used to be… the Bartels estate, didn’t it?”

Jeritza nods but doesn’t speak, retrieving their lunch boxes from their pack instead. He hands one to Byleth, who accepts it with a murmured thanks, and stares blankly down at the packed food for another long while. Byleth surreptitiously glances around them once more, finding himself unable to stop noticing things now that he’d received confirmation: there are entrances to what must be other rooms, some of them still passable while others are blocked off by large debris or huge plants. Which one of those doorways lead to Jeritza’s old bedroom, he wonders?

Beside him, Jeritza shifts, and Byleth returns his attention to his lunch before Jeritza can get suspicious. Unexpectedly enough, though, he only opens his mouth. “Did I ever tell you,” he starts, voice almost too soft to make out, “when I brought all those plants back home, it was Sister who convinced that man to let me keep them?”

“It’s not hard to imagine,” Byleth says, keeping his voice at a similar level, as if speaking any louder would shatter this fragile atmosphere around them.

Jeritza’s lips twitch as if in an attempt to smile. “It didn’t last, of course. But for a while, it worked, and… I was happy. We would water the plants together, and she would place some on the upper windows, the ones I couldn’t yet reach, once there was no space left. She helped me return them to the woods when that man threatened to smash every flower pot to pieces. But… you remember I mentioned leaving some in the house, the ones that could be contained?”

Byleth nods. “What, do you recognize any of them in here?” he asks, keeping his tone light.

He’s not expecting Jeritza to silently gesture at the tree before them.

“That…” Byleth feels his eyes widen of their own accord. “A _tree?_ You could contain this thing?” He’s never quite seen one so big before, and one resilient enough to grow straight through a house roof, that’s for sure.

Jeritza smiles. It’s just a tiny upwards quirk of his lips, but paired with the gentle spots of sunlight shining down on them, it’s an ethereal thing. “It’s often mistaken for a weed due to how small it is when first planted and how fast they can spread over an area, leading to farmers and gardeners pulling them out. But over time, as long as it is not pulled out by the roots, it’s a resilient thing that can grow to this size, sometimes even bigger.” Softly, he adds, “Impressive, isn’t it? When I was younger, it was all I wanted to be.”

Byleth blinks. “A tree?”

“No.” He pauses, looks away. “Something bigger than myself.”

“…Oh.” Now Byleth just feels stupid. He wracks his head for something to say, but eventually just lets the silence rest upon them. Jeritza stares up at the tree for a long while, saying nothing, before returning his attention to their lunch, which has probably gone cold by now; Byleth follows suit, taking a bite out of their food after Jeritza does so. The quiet feels a bit awkward, especially since Byleth has never properly known what to do when put in situations like these, but Jeritza doesn’t do anything more aside from eat.

He looks up from the container on his lap as if sensing Byleth’s gaze on him — and knowing his supernatural reflexes, he probably did. “Is it good?” Jeritza asks, gesturing vaguely at the food.

Byleth suppresses a surprised jolt. “Yes, of course,” he automatically responds, even though he can’t remember a thing about the singular spoonful he’d had before his thoughts drifted elsewhere. “It’s very, ah…” He takes another spoonful, and retains absolutely nothing about its taste once more. “Good,” Byleth weakly ends.

Jeritza tilts his head but says nothing more. He finishes off the last of his lunch, Byleth hurrying to do the same, then stands up from the tree root. “I suggest we scout out the Agarthans’ base first, then figure out the optimal time and method for attack. Going in blind would not be wise.”

“Oh? This may be the first time in a while I see you not immediately resorting to a head-on attack,” Byleth teases, stowing their empty containers back into their pack before standing up as well. Jeritza huffs and turns away, long strands of hair hiding the faint pink on his cheeks.

The forest — or rather, the former city of Bartels — does not end so much as the number of trees simply dwindle down the closer they get to the cliffside; grass still stretches a long way before hard rock takes over. Byleth convinces Jeritza to wait for him in the safety of the forest before venturing out, sticking to rock outcroppings and the occasional tree for cover. Unlike the modern, futuristic building he’d been expecting from Agarthan architects, the base, located almost worryingly close to the cliff’s edge, could nearly blend in with the ruined buildings in the Bartels forest: worn, rundown, and half-overgrown by climbing plants. The aura of dark magic is thick enough to practically smell, and Byleth wrinkles his nose at the faint but unmistakable stench of mire.

“Mm. I don’t envy you,” Linhardt says, when Byleth relays as such. “Is the base unoccupied? There doesn’t seem to be anyone moving in or out, nor is there movement through the windows.”

“Your eyesight is that good?” Byleth has to squint just to spot the windows from under all the plants.

“No, mine is!” Valentine chirps. “It’s a spell to enhance eyesight I devised on my own! It almost burned my eyeballs at first, but it works fine now! I plan on making a similar one for the other four senses—”

“Yes, yes, very admirable,” Linhardt gently interrupts. “Take a look inside, Byleth, go on, I’m very curious now. Perhaps all the other Agarthans are busy performing nefarious deeds elsewhere?” There’s the scratch of quill on parchment again, like he’s ready to take down notes on Agarthan architecture and interior design, despite the base being as normal as a house can get.

Byleth scratches his cheek. “Easy for you to say, all nice and safe in the Imperial Palace…”

“Safe? I resent that. Everyday I live in fear of that little dark magic boy setting me on fire or something equally brutal.”

Why does Luca always sound like he’s some sort of to-be perpetrator in a crime? Byleth can’t help but wonder how much more of a handful he’d be when combined with Valentine and Ciel. “Just barging in doesn’t sound the least bit safe,” he eventually decides. “I’ll scout around to see if there’s some sort of back entrance. Keep an eye out for me too.”

“I have no choice here about that,” Linhardt mutters.

Byleth circles around the house, grateful the grass is still thick and tall enough for him to lie low in — the dark magic is almost unbearable when he’s just a few feet away from the base, and he nearly presses his face against the soil just to avoid the stink of miasma, but somehow he endures it to reach the back. As he’d hoped, there is a back door, clearly used if the way it’s been cleared of plants and moss is any indication; there still aren’t any Agarthans around, even when he gets Valentine to peer through the dusty windows for him, which is terribly, suspiciously odd and has his every nerve on high alert. What sort of secret base doesn’t have anyone monitoring it?

Trying and failing not to be too bothered by all the dirt and grass sticking to his clothes, Byleth creeps back to where Jeritza is waiting. “It’s strange. It doesn’t look like anyone is inside,” he mumbles, giving the base several glances over his shoulder. “Feels exactly like a setup for a trap.”

Jeritza hums thoughtfully. “Then it might be best to wait here and see if any of them pass through here. I can’t imagine we can lose in a stake-out.”

“No,” Byleth sighs, giving him a tired look, “but your patience might.” He can’t even begin to count the number of times they were sent out on a stake-out mission, only for Jeritza to turn it into a charge-ahead mission less than five hours into the actual stake-out. Jeritza looks properly abashed. “Why don’t we wait until nightfall? We brought packed dinner as well anyway, and…”

“The estate is good cover?” Jeritza suggests, when Byleth trails off to contemplate on whether or not saying those exact words would be insensitive. At his hesitant nod, Jeritza only huffs in amusement and says, “I agree. The city… forest itself is decent cover in general, besides.”

They prepare a spot near the edge of the woods to lie in wait, making sure the base is visible from where they are, before settling down behind the bushes and on the pile of fallen leaves they’ve gathered. It’s not as terribly humid as the rainforest near Rusalka, and the thick canopies above them block out the worst of the sunlight, making this stake-out mission unexpectedly… comfortable, Byleth muses. It’s certainly better than the sorts of places they’d had to settle for back during the war.

“Ah, you’ll be waiting for a while then,” Linhardt says, yawning right afterwards. “Very well, wake me up if you need me, as usual… although I’m sure you can handle anything that happens on your own… oh, here you are.”

At first Byleth wonders who he’s talking to, only to feel like an idiot for wondering at all. “Byle, Jeri,” Ciel greets, followed by a shuffling sound in the background — probably them scrambling to see through their eyes through the spell, however that works. “Wha… a forest? Where are you? Looks nice there…”

Jeritza’s smile is small and tender. “Does it look nice? When things are safe, shall we bring you here?”

“Yeah!” Byleth can just about hear the excitement in Ciel’s voice. “I gardened with Bernie again today. Told me ‘bout all the weird plants where you are. Um… Rusalka…? That place? I wanna see. Are there any cats? Can you bring some home? There’s still space at home for more, right?” In an undertone, they add, “Wait… I thought of some names for new cats a while ago. Need to look for the list…”

“Hm.” Byleth scans their surroundings, catching Jeritza do the same beside him. So far there have been typical woodland animals, like rabbits and squirrels and the occasional fox, but no cats so far — likely because the aforementioned foxes would pounce on weaker kittens. “Well, a fox is basically like a bigger cat,” he allows.

Jeritza levels him with a look that plainly asks if Byleth has lost his mind. Byleth shrugs. “I’m right.”

“Why a fox? Not a rabbit or squirrel?”

“Do either of those look like cats to you?”

“Ciel is smaller than a fox.”

“They’re smaller than Aveline too, but they can hold their own against her, can’t they?”

“That…” Jeritza pauses, apparently deep in contemplation. “But they are not going to be swordfighting a fox…”

“‘Kay, ‘m back,” Ciel announces. Byleth shuts his mouth, deciding it’s for the better this topic be dropped before it grows any less understandable. “My first choice would be Angry, ‘cause cats are always angry, but Luca stole it. He made a cat friend the other day at the courtyard, it’s black an’ white like him and it’s always hissing at everyone all the time. I tried to pet it and it almost bit me, so mean… but I think I got the hang of it, you just gotta feed it before getting close, then Angry gets real nice. Next I thought of Lemon…”

Listening to Ciel rattle off their list of possible cat names makes time pass faster than expected — they haven’t even completely finished when Lysithea heads inside the room they’re in to call both Ciel and the dozing Linhardt down to help with dinner. “What, Ciel, you can cook now?” Byleth asks, half-astonished and half-full of trepidation.

“Hehe,” comes the self-satisfied sound. “My knives are sharper than the kitchen knives. Fish are fun to cut.”

Byleth and Jeritza exchange a long look. “Lysithea? You’ve been teaching them how to cut fish?” Byleth asks, after Ciel bids them goodbye and heads down to the kitchen.

Lysithea scoffs. “Me? No way, they’ve been teaching themselves. They saw the palace chefs do it once while they were sneaking around in the kitchen with Luca and now they can’t be stopped. I just hope they don’t get bored with fish and move on to live humans next.”

They wait a little longer, now in comfortable silence, but still no activity comes from the base and no Agarthans cross their line of sight, so they retreat back to the ruined Bartels estate for dinner. It’s much darker now, the shafts of light from the roof tinged warm oranges and pinks rather than the brightness it was earlier that day, but lighting a lantern would draw attention to them in case anyone, whether Agarthan or trespassing teenager, passes by, so Byleth has to eat while holding his food container inches away from his face. “This is far too strange,” Jeritza mutters. “It’s clearly their base, and yet there doesn’t seem to be anyone inside.”

“Perhaps they charmed the windows against outsiders,” Byleth suggests, although he shakes his head at himself right after — Linhardt, window-charming extraordinaire, would have noticed in an instant if that were the case. “It smells of a trap, but they can’t outlast us if we’re going to wait for one side to give in.”

Jeritza nods, but even in the relative darkness Byleth can tell he’s distracted. “What is it?” he asks, setting his empty food container away. If this stake-out lasts until tomorrow, one of them will have to return to Boramas to buy more food.

“Nothing. Just…” Jeritza stares into the darkness for a moment, then sighs. “Do you… mind if I look around here for a bit? Not long enough for us to potentially miss anything, I just…”

“Oh.” Byleth sighs. “Jeritza, you don’t even have to ask. I’ll come with you.”

There’s no argument, which is how Byleth knows Jeritza appreciates it. They dig a small candle out from their pack to use for a light less conspicuous than that of a lantern’s before carefully picking their way in the dark: from here there are three doorways that lead to different parts of the estate, but one corridor is blocked by the second floor having caved in down on it while another is blocked by a thorny plant Jeritza identifies as poisonous, leaving them with only one choice. Miraculously enough the last hallway is passable, if littered with spiders and other small animals that scamper out of their way, and eventually they end up in what must have once been a bedroom, identifiable only by the remains of, well, a bed in the corner.

“This is…” Jeritza’s eyes narrow in thought for a moment before realization flickers within them. “I see.”

Byleth is more than a bit confused, but decides against telling him that. He waits by the doorway while Jeritza steps in — the tree roots reach even here, snaking through the floor, while climbing plants take over the walls. A giant spider web takes up one corner of the ceiling, though the spider itself is nowhere to be seen, to both Byleth’s relief and concern. While most of the room has long since been reclaimed by nature, there’s a strange shape next to the bed’s remains that Jeritza peers at before crouching down to touch it. “Careful,” Byleth says, walking over to lift the candle for him. “Is that a… dresser?”

Jeritza nods wordlessly. The drawers are locked, but the wood is so old that forcing it open might destroy the whole thing entirely, so Byleth bends down to help him ease the top one open. The few items inside are less touched by plants and nature — some dusty jewelry, a pair of reading glasses, a small, circular container with its contents long since dried-up. The second drawer is much the same, holding nothing of worth, but the third drawer is where Jeritza pauses.

It’s almost completely dark now, and Byleth risks torching the entire house if he brings the candle any closer to the dresser, but he has to if he wants any hope of seeing inside. The third drawer looks empty at first glance until Jeritza reaches deeper inside, drawing out a small, quaint box that looks like it might have been a priceless treasure when it was first made. “This…”

Jeritza speaks so softly, Byleth almost doesn’t hear him. “What is it?”

“This room was my mother’s.”

… _That_ had been the last thing Byleth had expected. The jewelry had been a hint, admittedly, but he hadn’t wanted to think too deeply about something that isn’t his business. “Oh,” is all he says, feeling very stupid. When Jeritza doesn’t speak again, Byleth sits down beside him, careful to keep the candle flame from touching anything, and gently says, “She ran away with Mercedes when you were young, right?”

Jeritza nods. He doesn’t look sad about it, and his expression hardly changes, but Byleth thinks his voice sounds more melancholic than usual. “She was far kinder than I deserved,” he murmurs. “That man did not believe in books, but she would give me some behind his back anyway, whenever she visited the local library. Believed I would make a better scholar than anything else.” He pauses, tilts his head, then adds with a slight smile, “I can’t say she was right, although I appreciate her faith in me…”

Byleth huffs a laugh under his breath. “Well, you’re reading more now, aren’t you? For Ciel, if nothing else.”

“But at what cost? I might have to steal those for myself,” Jeritza mumbles, gesturing at the reading glasses from the first drawer. The lens are cracked and smudged beyond saving, but Byleth supposes it certainly would save on the cost of getting Jeritza’s eyes checked back at their home village. “They were hers too,” he adds, lowly. “I was not unlike Ciel myself. She would read to Sister and I every night, which might be why she bought a pair for herself.”

Byleth watches him as he speaks. During the war his eyes were always shadowed, carrying a hard glint within them, and afterwards, at home, they’ve grown more and more relaxed until only a trace of his previous constant wariness and apprehension remains, if at all. Now that shade of sky-blue, standing out even in the darkness, is too beautiful to describe with words.

“Your childhood…” Byleth hesitates, not sure what he’s meaning to say, exactly, only knowing that there is something he wants to say. “Will you tell me more?”

Jeritza blinks at him, slowly. “You want to hear it?”

“Of course.” _It’s you._

“Ah… Well…” Jeritza turns away, and at first Byleth worries he’d done something wrong until he spots the faint color at the tips of his ears. “Obviously, I will tell you anything you like, but… we have spent enough time here, I think. I will be glad to say more on the topic when we are not in the middle of a mission.” He stands up, stowing the small box in his coat pocket, and though curiosity threatens to eat Byleth alive, he lets the matter drop for now. “Shall we return? I imagine they might be more active in the evening.”

“Alright.” Byleth blows the candle out as they feel their way back to the first room — the sun has completely set by now, and the chill of the night is starting to set in. Sleeping out in the woods is obviously nothing they haven’t done before, but Byleth laments how long he’s going to be scrubbing dirt and grass out of their sleeping bags once they get back home…

He freezes. “Jeritza.”

“What—” Jeritza pauses as well, standing stock-still in front of him. They’ve reached the main room now, and though they’d had the foresight to block the doorway with a sizeable rock, there’s still enough of a gap left for them to hear something other than the chirping of birds and whistling of insects: rustling footsteps, unfamiliar voices.

They duck behind the large tree without another word. Judging by the footsteps and the variety of voices, Byleth estimates at least three people outside — they aren’t bothering to keep quiet in the least, which Byleth hopes means they aren’t aware of their presence, and he only has to strain his ears a little to follow their conversation. “S’all clear, but that giant hole in the fence is tripping me up,” one of them grumbles. “Someone obviously hacked and slashed their way through. Or maybe just slashed, ‘cause there was only one big rip and that’s it. Kinda scary, if you ask me.”

“I can’t use my tracking magic either,” another sighs. “If I don’t know who I’m supposed to be tracking, it’s no use. And asking those idiots from the city is pointless too — they don’t remember every single tourist that comes along, ugh. We should’ve just grabbed another kid for the experiments instead, that would have made the trip less of a hassle.”

“…Haha, yeah,” the last voice awkwardly laughs. Byleth’s heart jolts — it’s the voice of the Agarthan they had captured and interrogated last night, and who had showed them the way here. “No idea who could be coming here… a-actually, you think it’s another group of kids just messing around and trespassing in here? If so, we should look around and see if we can bring ‘em to the higher-ups, right? Then that means we won’t be reporting nothing!”

A snort. “Are you an idiot? Everyone in the city is scared shitless because of all the disappearances, ain’t no stupid kids coming here to set themselves up for us. Let’s just go. Hope we haven’t missed dinner already…”

The footsteps and voices fade into the distance, clearly in the direction of the base. Jeritza nods, and Byleth darts out to peer through the gap between the house’s doorway and the boulder, just quick enough to catch sight of three black-cloaked figures before they disappear into the darkness entirely. “Agarthans,” he confirms, like neither he nor Jeritza hadn’t known that already. “Their mannerisms were too natural to have been faked. They have no idea we’re here.”

Jeritza frowns, standing up to join Byleth by the doorway. “One of them was the fool we caught earlier. If the other two are of similar position to them, they may only be lowly scouts whom their superiors do not feel the need to inform about matters outside of their immediate responsibilities.”

“This at least means they’re not keeping a vigilant eye out for intruders. If we go now…”

Byleth trails off, letting Jeritza run the calculations in his head. He sighs, runs a hand down his face, then nods. “If only in the vain hope that we can finish this mission in one night and head back home already,” he mutters, stepping forward to help move the boulder out of the way. “Perhaps I have been spoiled by beds… some years back a sleeping bag would have felt like a luxury…”

They follow the Agarthans at a respectable distance, just enough to still be able to follow their voices while remaining undetected from behind. There’s nothing special about how they enter their base at the cliffside, no matter how hard Byleth squints, although it’s truly too dark for him to see anything inside in the brief moment they pry the aged wooden doors open. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Linhardt mutters, sounding more awake now in the middle of the night than he had during the day. “There’s dark magic, of course, but no signs of offensive spells. Valentine, what do you think?”

“Space distortion!” Valentine declares. Byleth wonders if he’s just saying random phrases aloud as if testing how they sound in his voice until he clarifies, “I managed the quickest of glances inside. It looks nothing like an old wooden house! Much more… erm… there’s a word for it…”

“Modern?” Jeritza suggests.

“Yes, exactly that! But it was only for a very, ah, brief… period of time, so I could not quite tell. But I am certain it is a spell to distort and alter the space inside the house to make it more of a base!”

“That would have been nice to know, Linhardt,” Byleth says.

“Hardly sounds like an offensive spell to me,” Linhardt says. Byleth’s not sure what he’d been expecting. “Alright, it should be safe. I detect a communication-blocking spell from here, though, so if our connection cuts out, don’t be too shocked. It should automatically reestablish itself as soon as you exit the base. If you need anything…” Linhardt pauses contemplatively. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Byleth sighs. He turns to Jeritza, who looks similarly tired. “Front or back entrance? I doubt it matters either way.”

“Then the front,” Jeritza says. “Considering our objective here is simply to bring the whole thing down, I see no difference where we start.”

That’s true, but now Byleth feels like he had crawled around on the grass looking for that back entrance earlier for nothing. He sighs behind Jeritza’s back, then joins him to hide in the shadows as they make their way out of the woods and towards the base.

Nothing happens when they open the door, nothing happens when they throw a rock over the threshold, and nothing happens when they finally step inside. Closing the door behind them throws them into a heavy darkness broken only by the faint glows of strange-looking lanterns hung up on the walls, lighting up a barely-visible path that leads deeper inside the base — which, as Valentine had said, is definitely much bigger than a rundown wooden house should be.

The stink of dark magic is almost oppressive here, and Byleth has to raise his collar up to keep himself sane, while Jeritza only wrinkles his nose and steps forward. He stands under one of the lantern lights, then moves his hands: _Let’s go?_

His movements are slow and jerky, which Byleth can’t blame him for; they had gone a few years without using sign language, after all. He nods, and they head down the path noiselessly, quiet enough that they can still hear the Agarthans’ chatter deeper inside.

The futuristic technology and architecture had thrown Byleth for a loop, but the more they walk, the more he can tell most of it is for show — the base itself isn’t big enough to get lost in, for one, and it’s cramped and narrow almost everywhere, making Byleth and Jeritza have to squeeze together to fit once the corridor begins to slope further down. _Underground,_ Jeritza signs, which Byleth suspected but hadn’t wanted to confirm; mire is a spell that calls on mud and sludge, after all, both of which are likely easier to find belowground than above. The floor turns changes from stone to soil halfway through, and Byleth nearly trips on large, bumpy tree roots more than once. Eventually the passageway widens into what looks like a common area for the Agarthans, and while Byleth had been expecting to balk at the numbers, all he does now is calmly count how many he can see: adding the three they’d tailed here, it looks like there are twenty in all. There’s only one more corridor he can see from here, and he doubts there are more than ten Agarthans beyond that.

…Doable, he thinks to himself. As long as they don’t get discovered and take care of things quickly, this shouldn’t be too troublesome.

Jeritza opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and signs messily with his hands again: _Attack now?_

Byleth eyes the area. None of the Agarthans are on-guard, most of them sitting by tables or speaking with one another. It’s just about dinnertime, too, so some of them are in the middle of gorging on what looks suspiciously similar to the packed meals from Boramas — it’s all painfully normal, not suspicious behavior at all, that Byleth almost feels sorry for what they’re about to do. He scans the crowd more until his gaze finally catches on one who stands out from the rest: a woman of average height, flipping through what looks like an account book, and scrawling something on its sheets every now and then.

There’s no way the ‘superiors,’ whoever they are, would let just any lowly member handle finances. He gestures at her, making sure Jeritza can see, and signs, _Only incapacitate._ It’d be good to bring someone back to the palace for a proper interrogation, or if things can’t be helped, just snatch the account book as physical evidence.

Jeritza squints at the woman, then nods. A few seconds of silence pass.

They strike at the same time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for waiting! here's the last chapter ❤
> 
>  **cw** for some gore & torture near the beginning. feel free to skip the entire fight scene if that's not your thing

Normally Byleth needs to exert a bit more effort when fighting, if only because he’s lessened his once-intense training to something more similar to light morning exercise, but considering they’d taken the Agarthans off-guard, he barely has to do more than swing his sword a few times for them to crumple at his feet. Behind him he can see Jeritza doing the same, the long black blade of his scythe gleaming and shining under the lantern lights with every _swish,_ and Byleth finds himself pausing over a freshly-killed corpse, watching as Jeritza obliterates one half of the room.

Blood splatters onto his cheeks. Strands of pale blonde hair come loose from their ponytail, framing his face and brushing against his narrowed eyes. Byleth had heard some monastery staff tittering to one another about how Jeritza’s jawline is sharp enough to cut through parchment, and as he watches him fight now, he can’t help but understand exactly where they were coming from.

Then Jeritza turns to face him and hisses, “ _What_ are you doing,” at which point Byleth realizes he has been staring stupidly at his partner in the middle of what was supposed to be a fight but is now really just a slaughter.

He turns around, digs his sword into a groaning Agarthan splayed out on the floor, and decides that’s good enough for now — the only one left standing is, to his relief, the woman he had pointed out earlier. She’s pressed up against the wall, holding the account book behind her with one hand while her other is stretched out to prepare what is clearly a Mire spell, but Byleth is faster; he darts towards her and uses the handle of his sword to jab at her elbow, knocking her aim off and sending her spell slamming all the way across the room and against the opposite wall instead of his face.

Every Mire spell’s telltale, sizzling noise echoes faintly in the room. Byleth doesn’t need to turn around to see how the sludge must be burning a hole through the wall right now. He knocks the woman out with a clean hit to the back of her head before she can cast another spell, just in time for Jeritza to join him at his side, idly flicking blood off the blade of his scythe. “Done?”

Byleth nods. “She won’t be waking up soon. Let’s—”

He means to say something along the lines of _let’s head further in_ or _let’s look for their superiors now,_ but his throat suddenly closes up, something thick and wet escaping his mouth instead of words.

Long-dormant instinct wakes up and takes over. Byleth casts a sloppy Heal spell over his own throat before the mire gurgling in his mouth can swallow him from the inside out; Jeritza makes a distressed noise as he steadies him, two strong, large hands on his shoulders, but Byleth can’t even relax in his hold when he catches a blur of movement behind them, coming from the only other passageway in the room. “T-There,” he chokes out, voice already raspy.

Jeritza hardly even looks away from him before throwing his scythe like it weighs as much as a dagger. It soars through the air, and while it doesn’t chop off any of the Agarthans’ heads, it does catch on one person’s long cloak and pins them to the wall, the blade embedded deep enough in the stone that the whole base shakes and rumbles ominously.

“F-Fools!” the trapped Agarthan snaps, scrambling to rip his cloak out of the wall. There are only three of them in total, and the other two are already beginning to back away, more fear than anything flickering in their expressions. “Do something! We cannot let these Empire scum—”

Jeritza stalks over and wrenches his scythe out of the wall, leveling the bloodied blade under the talking Agarthan’s chin with nary a second between either action. The Agarthan abruptly stops speaking. “We only need one of you alive,” Jeritza says, his voice lower and darker than Byleth’s ever heard it before. “Choose wisely now. Every second you make me wait is another second I shall drag your deaths out.”

“Wait, Jeritza,” Byleth wheezes — it’s been a while he’s had to react that quickly, and his heart is still beating loud enough to echo in his ears. Only experienced dark mages can cast the Mire spell directly within their victim’s throat, but the rate at which it kills a person… Byleth shudders to think about it. They’d lost plenty of Imperial soldiers because of that magic. “Don’t get too close, they—”

He makes a grab for his sword, but he’s too slow — one of the other Agarthans fires off a Miasma spell that rapidly spreads throughout the enclosed space. Byleth curses and lifts his collar up, but the distraction had been enough; the Agarthans slip away from Jeritza’s scythe and make a break for the exit, their forms flickering and wavering every so often as if trying but failing to Warp out — likely a result of their own anti-Warping barriers backfiring on them, but they’re too far to catch up to now, especially with the poisonous mist beginning to settle all over both Byleth and Jeritza.

Byleth can practically feel the murderous aura emanating from Jeritza. “Those…”

“Calm down,” Byleth manages, but even those two words send the miasma in the air tickling the back of his throat, and he coughs closed-mouthed before any more of the poison can get in. Some proximity to Miasma magic isn’t life-threatening, but prolonged exposure like this can be deadly, and if they stay down here any longer, where barely any fresh air reaches… He casts the fleeing Agarthans a furious look. If only he hadn’t let his guard down so quickly—

Byleth pauses, blinks. For a moment it almost feels like the power of the Divine Pulse has returned to him, nestling comfortably in his hands, because time seems to slow down for a precious few seconds — and in that brief pocket of time, he sees the curl of a tree root right by the entrance to the passageway, directly in front of the Agarthans, its unusual size and shape distinct enough to be familiar. _Jeritza,_ he signs, catching the other man’s attention as he points at the root.

Jeritza’s eyes widen in realization. His scythe arm twitches as if ready to fling it again, before abruptly stretching out his other arm instead. The Thunder spell he casts is so small, it would be laughable if they were in any other situation, but the tiny spark only has to dart out from Jeritza’s fingertips towards the underground tree’s roots.

It bypasses the three Agarthans with admirable speed and hits the root. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the tree explodes.

One would think an exploding tree sounds like a far-fetched exaggeration, but Byleth cannot in good conscience describe the tree’s reaction as anything but an explosion. The small, innocuous root shoots out of the ground to wrap around the nearest Agarthan and only when Byleth comes closer does he see razor-sharp thorns have sprung out from the root, piercing the Agarthan’s skin and drawing blood from several different puncture wounds. As if that weren’t enough, the root coils around the Agarthan’s throat and _squeezes,_ hard enough that the Fire spell in their hands sparks, flickers, and dies completely when another root comes out of nowhere to dig into one of their eyes.

It’s even more brutal than Byleth had been expecting, especially considering how Jeritza had spoken about the underground tree’s roots like the worst it would do was snap at someone’s fingers a few times, or let out vaguely poisonous sap, not… kill an adult man in under a minute. The other two Agarthans are startled out of their wits, which Byleth cannot blame them for — they curse and stumble out of the way, their colleague’s corpse hanging in the air by the tree root around their throat for another few seconds before the root slackens and retracts back to its original position, dropping the body to the ground with an unceremonious _thump._

The distraction is more than enough. Byleth knocks out one of the Agarthans while Jeritza… slices the other one’s back open, which is a bit bloodier than Byleth would have preferred, but as long as it gets the job done. He doubles back to lift the woman from earlier up onto his back while Jeritza hauls the two higher-ups — one unconscious, one beginning to choke on his own blood — onto his shoulders. _Follow,_ he signs, as best as he can while still keeping a grip on the people he’s carrying, and Byleth knows what he means, making sure to step where Jeritza steps and steering clear of the underground tree’s roots.

The uphill trek back is torturous, moreso with the miasma still circulating in their lungs and the now-present fear of aggravating the tree roots, but somehow they finally make it back out of the base; Byleth has never been more grateful for that first deep breath of fresh air, tinged with saltwater and forest soil. “The estate?” he coughs out, throat still itching.

Jeritza only nods, adjusting his grip on the two Agarthans. Byleth wishes he could help, but they both know switching now would just be a waste of time. There’s the faint sound of static in the back of Byleth’s head again, but no word from Linhardt nor Valentine yet, so the telepathic link must still be attempting communication for now — they trudge back to the estate first, Byleth doing his best not to feel strange about calling a ruined wreck he’d initially mistaken for a strangely-shaped rock an ‘estate.’

They dump the three Agarthans, the account book tucked inside one of their cloaks, in one of the corridors blocked halfway through by a large, thorny, poisonous plant — not quite as dangerous as the underground tree, Jeritza tells him, but harmful enough to scare the Agarthans into submission, if their weapons aren’t enough. The background static reaches an all-time high at around the same time, but thankfully not for too long, replaced almost immediately by Linhardt’s familiar voice. “Testing, testing… ah, hello, can you hear me?”

“Unfortunately,” Jeritza mutters.

“Horrible talking to you as always. How are things? You weren’t gone for long.”

They weren’t? Byleth sighs. Just getting out of that base felt like the longest years of his life, but Linhardt makes it sound like he hadn’t even had the time for a quick nap. “Well, we’ve cleared out the base, brought back three Agarthans to get information out of them. We can search the base again for anything else, but it’ll have to be later or tomorrow — it’s full of miasma right now.”

There is a long pause. Then, slowly, Linhardt asks, “Am I hearing right? You cleared the base out in that amount of time?”

Jeritza wipes some blood off his face, only succeeding in further smearing it across his skin. “Did we take too long after all? I must have grown rusty.”

“Rusty?” Linhardt wheezes. “You two are really… ugh, never mind. Give me a moment, then.” In the background, the sound of chair legs scraping against the floor echo faintly, followed by footsteps that quickly fade into nothing.

“Hmm. If he wanted to criticize our speed, he should come here and attempt this himself,” Jeritza says, apparently miffed. Byleth can’t be bothered to inform him about the clear misunderstanding between them, mostly because it’s more amusing than it probably should be.

One of the Agarthans chooses that moment to stir, and in the next instant there are two blades pointed at their throat, the cold steel of Byleth’s sword and Jeritza’s scythe pressed against their neck. They squeak in fright and scramble backwards, but fall still once the plant’s thorns brush against their cloak. “Wise choice,” Jeritza dryly says. In the darkness broken only by weak candlelight, his visage looks more sinister than Byleth is used to. “Any further and the poison would be swimming through your veins right now.”

“Y-You…” the Agarthan whispers. “You two… You’re with the Empire! I-I remember. During the battle of Shambhala, the amount of soldiers we lost to your blades…”

“Our reputation precedes us, then,” Byleth says. “Let’s make this quick. Tell us everything about yourselves and what you plan to do, or die. It’s a very simple and easy choice, don’t you think?”

The Agarthan glares up at him. Upon closer inspection, they’re one of the higher-ups, or at least one of the mages who had come from the other passageway and therefore hadn’t been caught up in their slaughter. “We’ve lasted this long. It will take far more than some pretty words and empty threats to get anything out of me!”

“Empty threats, you say…” Jeritza tilts his head to the side, stray hair falling over his face. He draws his scythe back, away from the Agarthan’s neck, and Byleth follows without complaint.

The Agarthan looks hopeful for all of one second before Jeritza’s arm moves.

“Byle?” Ciel’s voice, sleepy but recognizable, suddenly comes through. Byleth tenses in surprise — when had they gotten there? They can see through either Byleth’s or Jeritza’s eyes using the spell, can’t they? Byleth hurriedly averts his gaze from the sight in front of him, staring resolutely at some spot on the floor instead. “Uh… so noisy there… an’ so dark. Where are you? Who’s yelling in the background? Tell ‘em to shut up.”

They have definitely been spending too much time with Lysithea, Byleth reflects. “Hello, Ciel. We’re a little busy with… work right now, so it’s a bit noisy here, yes. What are you doing up so late anyway?”

“Heard Lin walkin’ down the hallway. He never does that, so I thought somethin’ happened.”

Linhardt never walking… sounds right. Byleth means to respond, but Jeritza’s low voice catches his attention. “Still not talking?” he’s murmuring, audible even over the Agarthan’s pained groans. “So I see it will take a bit more convincing to open your mouth. Do you see your friend over there? Flip them over for me. Is it too hard with only one arm left now?”

“What’s Jeri doin’? Oh, working,” Ciel thinks aloud. “Mmn… ‘s too dark to see through him, and it looks like he can’t hear me… Is he havin’ fun?”

“Jeritza, are you having fun?” Byleth asks.

Jeritza lifts his head up to look quizzically at Byleth. It doesn’t look like he even exerting an effort in holding the Agarthan’s face down, burying their nose and mouth inside the large gash wound he had inflicted on their colleague’s back earlier. “What on earth are you asking me right now.”

“He says he is,” Byleth tells Ciel. There is simply no good way to tell their six-year-old child that Jeritza is currently suffocating someone in their colleague’s blood and guts. “It’s late. You really should head back to sleep now, Ciel, we can talk again tomorrow morning.”

“But…” Byleth can almost hear the pout in their voice. “‘M not sleepy…”

“Maybe for now,” Byleth says, glancing behind him, making sure to move the candlelight further away in case Ciel is looking through his eyes: Jeritza lifts the Agarthan’s head up, gives them less than a second to gasp for breath, then shoves them back down into the gradually widening wound. He’d felt a bit ill the first time he watched Jeritza do this during interrogations, and while the sight had gradually grown more familiar over the years, witnessing it again now has him shuddering a little. Yes, he definitely prefers the domestic life… “But you’ll regret it in a few hours. What if you sleep right through morning training?”

Ciel is quiet at that, likely ruminating over the horrors of missing exercise for the first time since they’d started. Byleth chances another glance over his shoulder. The Agarthan is babbling away, though their words are too fast and garbled for Byleth to understand, while Jeritza stares boredly down at him before dropping his face back into the wound. “ _Fine,_ I _guess,_ ” Ciel mutters, sounding extremely displeased. “But still.”

“Still?”

“How much longer? ‘Til you come home?”

Byleth sighs. “Not much longer now, Ciel, I promise. We just have to clean things up a bit here, and then we’ll be back soon. We shouldn’t even have been gone long enough for you to miss us.”

“…Already miss you,” Ciel grumbles.

Before Byleth can answer — not that he’s sure of what he would have said, considering the aching pain in his chest at their words — he hears the sound of a door opening in the background, followed by two pairs of footsteps. “Ciel? What are you doing up?” Edelgard asks. She sounds torn between being sleepy or being awake, like she’s not awake at all but is forcing herself to feel it. “Go back to sleep now. Linhardt, do you mind?”

“What, tucking a child in bed? What do you think of me?”

“A parent, obviously.”

Linhardt is silent, though Byleth can see him running a hand down his face in exasperation. “Very _well._ Ciel, come along, you can talk to those two at a more reasonable hour.”

“What… I didn’t even get to talk to Jeri,” they sulk. “Bye, Byle. Bring back souvenirs,” they remind, before Linhardt presumably ushers them out of the room. Byleth manages a goodnight back, although he’s not sure they’d heard it, as the sound of the door clicking shut echoes in his head right after.

Edelgard sighs. Byleth can tell it’s her sighing because he’s heard her sigh the exact same way dozens of times throughout both wars, during council meetings and conversations alike. “Alright. Linhardt tells me you cleared the base out, and he’s normally not one to exaggerate, but either he’s trying to prank me first thing in the morning or you two are on another level entirely. What happened?”

Byleth coughs. Is it really that unbelievable that they’d swept the place up? There’d only been a handful of enemies there, after all, they usually took on over thrice that amount in battles during the war… “It’s as he said. One Agarthan cast a wide-range Miasma spell in it, so we’ll likely have to return tomorrow for closer investigation as it’s too dangerous now, but otherwise everything is clear…”

Byleth explains the situation as succinctly as he can, although he has to repeat himself several times because Jeritza, apparently having deduced that drowning in blood isn’t accomplishing much, has moved on to the Agarthan’s remaining limbs. “So there were at least twenty of them in there,” Edelgard muses aloud, once Byleth finishes. “The largest number we’ve seen so far, and you cleared them out without effort. It looks like peacetime hasn’t softened you two at all.”

“No, we only…” Byleth had decided to leave out the less relevant parts, like how one of the Agarthans had been killed by a tree, but now he’s wondering if he should attribute this mission’s success to the terrain. “Well, thank you,” he ends up saying.

“I’ll send someone over in the morning… well, in a few hours… to Warp the five of you back to the palace,” Edelgard says decisively. Her voice fades in and out and Byleth can hear the steady cadence of footsteps on wood, which must mean she’s pacing back and forth in thought. “Please just keep the three prisoners you have now incapacitated until we arrive… although it looks like Jeritza is doing a decent job at that already. Thank you, again,” she adds, softly. “I wish I didn’t have to drag you into these things, but…”

“Um. It’s no problem,” Byleth says, scratching his cheek. “We’ll wait here, then. You can track our location, right?”

Edelgard bids them goodnight after confirming some more information, then presumably rushes off to make arrangements instead of returning to sleep like Byleth suggests she do, which is far from the first time she’s done something similar. “Someone should come by in the morning,” Byleth says, walking back to where Jeritza is. “Do you… need help, by the way?”

“Hm? Oh. No, not really.” Jeritza lets go of the Agarthan in his grip; they drop bonelessly to the floor, apparently unconscious, their face drenched in their colleague’s blood. “The other one is probably a lost cause, regretfully enough. They’ve lost too much blood.”

“…I wonder why,” Byleth mumbles.

Edelgard hadn’t specified a time, but Byleth guesses someone will arrive here by sunrise, so they retreat slightly to settle at the entrance to the passageway, keeping a safe distance from the prisoners but not too far away that they wouldn’t be able to see them moving or acting suspiciously. The woman had woken up earlier but had refused to open her mouth or do anything aside from glare murderously at them, so Jeritza had decided to leave her alone as well until they get back to the palace. “This was all very tiring,” he mutters, sitting to lean back against the vine-wrapped wall behind him. “I miss our bed. Dearly.”

“Mm, me too.” Byleth rests his head on Jeritza’s shoulder. Not quite as soft as a pillow, but he is warm, which Byleth will just have to settle for. “It has been a while since I’ve seen you… interrogate. Did you get anything substantial out of them?”

Jeritza shakes his head. “They gave in and started babbling halfway through, but I would rather leave this in Hubert’s hands. I simply wore them down enough that breaking them again back at the palace will not take so much time. And also,” he adds, “to prevent them from waking up anytime soon.”

“Drowning in blood and guts is an experience I would not want to relive,” Byleth agrees, still feeling mildly ill. “I’ll take first watch. Rest for a little while.”

Jeritza is quiet, and in the darkness Byleth doesn’t think much of it, assuming he must already have closed his eyes. But then Jeritza shifts next to him and clears his throat, one hand dipping inside his coat pocket, and Byleth’s attention shoots up several levels. “Since we are… already here, there is something I should tell you.”

Byleth blinks. He trusts Jeritza, of course, but these specific words still have unease creeping up his spine anyway. “Yes…?”

“I…” Jeritza sighs, shakes his head. “I am not a good person.”

That had absolutely _not_ been what Byleth had been expecting. “What? What are you—”

“You should know that by now,” Jeritza cuts in. Byleth wants to argue, if only because he has no idea where this conversation is going, but reluctantly decides to let Jeritza speak. “I am not a good person. I killed the entirety of House Bartels with my bare hands when I was young, and I would do it all over again if I were given a choice to return to the past. I do not regret doing what I felt was right for my sister at the time.” He pauses, then very carefully places his hand atop Byleth’s. “I have killed many more times since then. For as long as I am alive, I do not think that will change. But… if you are willing… I would still like to stay by your side. It is a selfish request, but to be together with you and Ciel for the rest of my days is the only thing I wish for from now on.”

It’s probably the most Jeritza has spoken in one go for as long as they’ve known each other. For a moment Byleth can only sit there, stunned and more than a bit bewildered by how sudden this is, and also unsure if this is a conversation they should be having in front of two Agarthans, but the serious look on Jeritza’s face eventually pushes a response out of him. “This is… very out of nowhere,” he manages. “Of course I want to stay with you, Jeritza, but… I thought this was clear?”

Now Jeritza just looks embarrassed. “I wanted to make sure.”

“We’ve lived together for how many years now?” Byleth frowns, leaning closer. “We’ve slept together? We have a child together?”

“Yes, okay, alright,” Jeritza mumbles, his face now beginning to tinge pink, “but I wanted to _make sure._ So your — your answer is yes, right? And you are certain about it?”

Byleth’s never quite seen Jeritza this nervous before, especially about something he had assumed was set in stone for them already. He’s a bit tempted to tease him about it, but decides to just smile and place his other hand atop Jeritza’s, idly tracing the lines of his knuckles with his thumb. “Yes,” he says, softly, feeling himself relax as well when he sees the uncertainty in Jeritza’s eyes vanish in that one word. “I have always been sure about you and I.”

Jeritza closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them again. “Alright,” he says, so quietly and tenderly that Byleth feels his heart do a stupid little twirl in his chest. With his other hand, he retrieves something from his coat pocket and presents it to Byleth, the object just barely visible in the darkness. “Then I should give you this.”

“This is…?” It’s the box he had taken from his mother’s room earlier today. Byleth doesn’t get the chance to ask what it is before Jeritza is opening it with a flick of his thumb, and Byleth peers closer for a better look.

His breath catches in his throat. Nestled in the velvet plush, a ring shimmers under the candlelight, its band gold and the small gem embedded within it a beautiful azure blue.

“You gave me your father’s ring, so here is my mother’s,” Jeritza says, his words slow and careful, keeping his eyes on Byleth’s face as if gauging his reaction. Unfortunately for him, Byleth can’t decide exactly how to react right now, if only because he had completely forgotten about the box until just now. “I do not expect you to wear it — her hands were likely smaller than yours — but I hope this can serve as proof of our promise together.”

When a few seconds pass and all Byleth can do is still remain sitting there, staring stock-still at the ring, Jeritza coughs and adds, “Please accept it.”

“Ah! Right, I…” Byleth takes the box in hand, unable to tear his gaze away from the ring. The color of the gem matches Jeritza’s eyes, and he wonders if his mother had the same pair of pale, sky-blue eyes as he does. “Thank you,” he whispers, taking the ring out to admire it. The low light offers little in way of visibility, but he can tell it’s definitely too small for him — not that he minds at all, obviously. “This is… I didn’t expect this at all.”

Jeritza leans back, looking endearingly pleased with himself now. “I did not expect to find this when we entered her room earlier either, but I see now it was a good choice. The last thing I want is to have left something like this hidden away in the dresser any longer.”

He stares down at the ring, watching as Byleth carefully returns it to the box and tucks it into his own pocket. “I… do not remember much about my childhood,” he murmurs, “but I do remember seeing that on her hands, before. I cannot fathom why she would have left it here when she took the rest of her belongings when she and Sister left.”

The dresser had been fairly empty when they looked inside it, Byleth remembers. “Perhaps she meant for you to find it all along,” he says, cautiously. “I mean… I wouldn’t know, of course, but… I can’t think of any other reason why she would leave it behind if not for you.” It certainly couldn’t have been meant for Count Bartels, after all.

Jeritza is quiet for a moment, before the corners of his lips quirk upwards in a small, tender little smile. “Maybe. I will never know, but it is… nice to think of it like that.”

“Did you have to accompany this with a grand speech, though? Now I feel inferior,” Byleth sighs. After their promise to exchange rings together, all he’d done was order a custom-made necklace chain from the local blacksmith for Jeritza to attach Father’s ring on, since it was too small for his hands — he hadn’t bothered to say anything particularly special, just a brief kiss and deliberately brushing his fingers against the back of Jeritza’s neck while fiddling with the necklace clasp. That had resulted in an… activity on the couch that Byleth is rather glad Ciel had been in school for. “I’ll have to make it up to you somehow.”

Jeritza shrugs. “Was it very grand? I do believe we are equal in terms of that. I quite liked how you gave me your ring, for one.”

“This is perhaps _not_ something we should talk about in front of other people.”

“Why?” Jeritza shifts closer, the glint in his eyes now more suspicious than anything. “Are you shy?” A pause. “Do you not want to be seen by others?”

“Y-You…”

They spend the night switching shifts every hour or so, and Byleth nods off just as the first rays of light begin to creep in through the cracks in the walls and the holes in the roof. Linhardt had informed him earlier that Hubert and Lysithea were on their way to where they were and it should just take another half-hour, so Byleth is already dreaming about having a nice, long nap in one of the beds in the Imperial Palace when he feels the warmth beside him suddenly slip away.

He blinks blearily, brushing some hair out of his eyes. Voices… footsteps… have the Agarthans woken up, and are they trying to escape or attack? Jeritza must have gotten up to subdue them, then. Byleth stretches the soreness out of his neck and stands up to look, glad for the faint early sunshine seeping in the house and turning everything into shades of gold. Their candle had burnt down to the base a few hours ago…

And… Byleth rubs his eyes. That’s not Jeritza, is it. “What are you doing?”

The Death Knight doesn’t even look at him, entirely focused on keeping his scythe leveled under one of the Agarthans’ chin. “Who are they? Why are we here?”

“Those are Agarthans. We’re taking them back to the palace for interrogation. Don’t kill them,” Byleth explains, sighing when the Death Knight doesn’t move away from the two. The woman still isn’t moving nor talking, glaring at the ground like she’s been doing all night, while the Agarthan Jeritza had thrown around last night is still unconscious despite having a blade right by their throat. “Calm down and come back here. We’re in no danger.”

Unfortunately, the Agarthan chooses that moment to stir awake. It takes them a moment to regain their senses, but they yelp and jolt back the instant they register the cold steel against their neck. “What! W-Wait! I haven’t done anything, I j-just woke up, I—”

“Silence,” the Death Knight growls, pressing the blade even closer to the Agarthan’s throat. “I loathe noisy cowards like you the most.”

Byleth sighs again, already feeling a headache coming on. Does this really have to be the first thing he deals with in the morning? If he can just distract the Death Knight for another half-hour, or at least until Hubert and Lysithea arrive to take the Agarthans away, then Byleth can spar with the Death Knight here for as long as it takes to bring Jeritza back, but—“Wait, _no,_ ” he hisses, jumping to his feet when the Death Knight draws his scythe back, only to raise it above his head in a clear chopping motion—

Static crackles in the air. Byleth jolts, his still-sleepy mind automatically tensing for a Thunder spell, only to realize the sound is only in the back of his head. The Death Knight freezes in place, just before his scythe would have lopped the poor Agarthan’s head clean off, and takes several steps back. “Don’t panic,” Byleth hurries to tell him; the Death Knight had probably been anticipating thunder magic too. “It’s just a communication spell. It’s probably Edelgard or—”

“Hello? Jeri?” comes Ciel’s voice, because of course it looks like the universe is conspiring to do its absolute best at making Byleth feel like an idiot today.

The Death Knight is silent, staring down at the grass. His eyes are wide and unseeing, as if he’s trying to comprehend exactly what is going on here, and Byleth flounders for the right words to use. How exactly does one describe the telepathic link? A sort of spell that allows communication over a great distance? He opens his mouth to say just that, but then Ciel interrupts him before he can even speak: “Oh… still asleep?”

“You…” the Death Knight murmurs. To Byleth’s pleasant surprise, he sounds marginally less murderous than a few seconds ago, albeit likely because he’s now more perplexed than anything.

“Ah!” Ciel sounds delighted. “Jeri 2!”

How did they realize it was the Death Knight from one word alone? What a perceptive child, Byleth thinks fondly, before reining himself in — this probably isn’t the sort of thing he’s supposed to be proud of them for. “Ciel,” he says, quietly, “we’re a bit busy now — and it’s still too early for you to be awake, go back to sleep now. I promise we’ll be back at the palace soon—”

“But I haven’t seen Jeri 2 in a while,” Ciel says. “How’s he been? What’s he doing? Jeri 2, you there?”

Knowing how stubborn Ciel can get when they’re set on something, Byleth decides to stay out of this — the Death Knight had been… nice is certainly a word… to Ciel last time he had come around, and there isn’t much he can do to them when they’re several cities apart. The Agarthan who’d been a hair’s breadth from being beheaded looks bewildered at this string of events, but wisely doesn’t speak a word, apparently aware that drawing attention to themselves now will be the end of them.

The Death Knight still looks like this is a situation he can’t quite comprehend, but after giving the Agarthans a dirty look, steps away from them to come closer to Byleth… although ‘closer’ probably isn’t the right word. It looks more like he simply decided that Byleth was the lesser of two annoyances between him and the Agarthans. “So this is a long-distance communication spell of sorts. Magic has truly advanced over the past few years.”

“…Glad you agree,” Byleth weakly says.

“What’re you doing?” Ciel asks. They sound more awake than ever, despite the ridiculously early hour. “‘M hungry… ‘s a bit noisy outside ‘cause everyone’s tryin’ to be quiet while runnin’ around, so I haven’t gotten lots of sleep since a while ago… Lin and Vale are asleep beside me. Mm, I saw Hube and Lysi doing the… I think the Warp spell a while ago, you know, the one where they go real far an’ stuff. Jeri 2 is listening, right?”

Jeri 2 — ahem, the Death Knight only stands silently in place, his blank gaze fixed on the grass. Byleth almost opens his mouth to say something in his place, when unexpectedly enough the Death Knight mutters, “Yes.”

Byleth can imagine the pleased expression on Ciel’s face. “Did you eat anythin’ good there?”

The Death Knight doesn’t respond this time, and Byleth takes over for him. “We had some pheasant in Rusalka and some local specialties in Boramas. We were just talking about how we’d bring you here next time, Ciel, although hopefully it won’t be because of work or anything.”

“Really? I want that. Food…” A long sigh. “Oh. I think Lin’s wakin’ up, he’ll kick me out if he sees I’ve been here again… ‘m gonna go to the kitchen and cut a fish. You’re coming back today, right?”

“Once Hubert and Lysithea arrive, yes.”

“Okay.” Ciel sounds even more pleased. “Bye-bye, Byle, Jeri 2.” Then there’s the rapid _th-thump_ of tiny footsteps as they presumably rush out of the room, followed by faint shuffling and shifting, likely Linhardt moving around in his blankets. Either he remains asleep or wakes up and falls back asleep, because he says nothing, and silence falls on them once more.

By now the faint sunlight from earlier has begun to grow brighter, enough that Byleth can see without needing to squint in the darkness. The two Agarthans haven’t moved or otherwise acted despite how obviously distracted they had been, to Byleth’s relief, though the one the Death Knight had terrorized is now staring fearfully at the corpse of their colleague lying beside them as if just seeing the rotting body now. The Death Knight remains still for a while longer, and Byleth takes a few cautious steps closer to him, making sure he moves where the Death Knight can see him, but says nothing else.

Finally the Death Knight speaks. “That… child has certainly grown noisier since I last saw them.”

Byleth allows himself an internal sigh of relief that the first words out of the Death Knight’s mouth aren’t, for once, an invitation to fight to the death. “They have, haven’t they? I imagine it’s because they’ve just grown more comfortable around other people, after living with us for a while.” He pauses there — the Death Knight doesn’t exactly live with them so much as he sleeps for several weeks in their house before suddenly appearing out of nowhere to wreak havoc for a few hours before falling asleep again — but Byleth decides against correcting himself.

The Death Knight shakes his head, then turns to face Byleth. Normally Jeritza’s pale blue eyes go a shade darker when in this persona, but… perhaps it’s the early morning sunlight, but Byleth thinks they look a little lighter than he’s grown to expect. “Why are we here?” he asks again. “Of all places, why are we here?”

Byleth swallows. The question isn’t “where are we” — despite the Bartels estate having been reduced to overgrown ruins, the Death Knight still recognizes it. “The Agarthans built a base by the cliff’s edge. We… decided to stay here for the time being while waiting for Hubert and Lysithea to help warp us back to the palace.”

The Death Knight turns away. “I see.”

Silence again. They can never have a regular conversation, can’t they. Byleth leans back against the wall and waits, for either the Death Knight or the Agarthans to do something, but both parties stay as still and un-troublesome as can be, which is more than a bit confusing; Byleth hadn’t exactly been _hoping_ for trouble or anything, but this much peace is unnerving and honestly suspicious. Even when the Death Knight moves, all he does is place a hand on one of the walls, or bend down slightly to examine a plant growing near the floor.

“You understand,” the Death Knight suddenly says, “that this place is a mass graveyard?”

Byleth blinks. “What?”

“I slaughtered the entirety of Bartels and left no one behind to bury the bodies. Considering the state of this place as it is now, I doubt anyone bothered to come and give any of these people a funeral.” The Death Knight looks down at a patch of soil, and Byleth has a passing thought about having slept next to more than just one dead person last night. “The corpses were likely eaten away by insects and other animals. One would hardly need to dig too far underground to unearth those people’s bones.”

This is really only unsettling Byleth further, but corpses are nothing new to a mercenary like him, unfortunately enough. “I see,” is all he offers, not sure of what else to say here. _I’m sorry_ doesn’t sound right, since neither Jeritza nor the Death Knight are particularly regretful about being a mass murderer almost two decades ago.

“That child…” The Death Knight trails off for a moment, as if contemplating his words, then speaks again. “They reminded me of… myself. From before. No, I suppose I cannot say _myself…_ the man you know. Jeritza.”

“Ciel?”

“Yes.” The Death Knight scowls. “Shy. Weak. Incapable. Always needing someone to protect them, because they couldn’t do anything on their own. Dependent on others, disgustingly so.”

“That—” Byleth scowls right back, feeling his temper beginning to flare again. “They’re a _child._ Six years old.” _Younger than you when…_ He doesn’t say that aloud, nor even continue that thought in his head. “It’s not their fault they need someone to rely on while they’re young.”

“Were you listening to me? I said _reminded._ ”

Byleth pauses, more stunned than he’d like to admit. “Did… something change?”

The Death Knight’s voice sounds a little quieter than usual when he speaks again. “The people they depended on did not leave them alone.”

His words are somber, completely unlike how naturally aggressive the Death Knight usually is. Byleth opens his mouth, but closes it a second afterward — he’s not sure what he can say here, if there is anything for him to say. The Death Knight watches him for a moment, then continues. “It was not Mother’s fault, nor Sister’s. He stayed of his own volition as well, I remember that. But I was born entirely because they left, and I stayed alive because they did not return. After nearly ending the Bartels bloodline, the bloodlust something like me developed could not be quelled by mere animals. If the Emperor had not found him… Jeritza… he would have died from exhaustion, and I with him.”

He pauses, looks away. “At times I hear his thoughts. I cannot count how many times he had wished the Emperor had left us both behind to die in the wild, to get rid of the monster in him.”

“Je—” Byleth swallows the name down. “But that’s…”

“That was before he met you. That was before he met the child, too.” The Death Knight shrugs. Such a casual motion doesn’t fit them at all, and Byleth’s mildly surprised the Death Knight is even capable of making such an action, even if he knows logically that the Death Knight can do anything Jeritza can. “Since then I have never heard a wish like that again. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

 _Not really,_ Byleth wants to say, but that’s probably only because of the stabbing pain in his heart. Jeritza had spoken at length about either of them killing the other at some point, yes, but hearing something like this from the Death Knight, of all people… thinking about how Jeritza, still only a child back then, had wanted to die so badly… “What is it?”

The Death Knight levels him with a look as if trying to comprehend how someone of his level of intelligence has survived this long. Byleth’s inclined to agree. Finally, he speaks again. “Raise that child well.”

“…What—”

But the Death Knight has already turned around and strode out of the house, leaving Byleth in the dust mere seconds after saying something like _that._ Byleth stands there a little longer, blinking stupidly, before turning back to face the Agarthans. They still haven’t moved; the tortured Agarthan has passed out, likely from the shock of seeing their dead colleague, while the woman looks bored, like she had been watching a terribly-produced musical in a cheap opera. Byleth almost asks if she had heard what the Death Knight had said, if only so he can confirm he hadn’t been hallucinating, but thinks better of it and leans heavily back against the wall instead.

…What had just happened…? He should probably go out and chase the Death Knight down before he gets himself into some sort of trouble all the way in Boramas, something that has happened in the local village more than once, but it’s already taking everything in Byleth to just stay standing here. He takes a few deep breaths and decides to count down the seconds until Hubert and Lysithea arrive.

To his relief they arrive only another hour or so later — Hubert exchanges a few, curt words with the Agarthans before knocking them cold with some sort of sleep spell Byleth would not want to be on the receiving end of, while Lysithea squints out into the rest of the forest. “I thought I saw something running around out there earlier, and you’re telling me it was probably the Death Knight?” she huffs. “I ought to get in a spar with _him,_ see how he likes being reminded of how I beat him into the ground last time.”

She says ‘last time’ like it hadn’t been almost ten years ago by now. Byleth sighs. “Please wait for us. I will… go out and… do my best.”

Byleth finds the Death Knight wandering aimlessly around the forest, often stopping to stare at a certain spot for no discernible reason. Byleth follows behind but keeps a safe distance from him — if he had been able to recognize the Bartels estate despite its current condition, after all, then he must recognize the rest of the city as well. He’s not sure how long he trails the Death Knight around the forest for, but at some point, when the sky has lightened up and the sun has climbed up from the horizon, Jeritza turns around to blink sleepily at Byleth. “What…”

“Good morning,” Byleth greets.

“Was I sleepwalking?” Jeritza mumbles. Then realization dawns on his face, and he lets out a long, heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. Did he cause any trouble again?”

“Surprisingly, no.” Byleth comes closer to him, brushes some dirt off his cheek, then takes Jeritza’s hand in his. “We must have left Lysithea bored to death by now. Come on.”

“Ah…” Jeritza looks around again, and Byleth does the same.

The forest is even more beautiful in the morning: sunlight sparkling off fresh dew, birdsong echoing everywhere, small animals scampering through the underbrush. Leaves rustle and sway above them in the gentle breeze, the shadows of the canopies they form dancing on the damp soil. If the Death Knight hadn’t killed Count Bartels and the rest of the people in here, a forest like this wouldn’t come to life as it is now, Byleth idly reflects… not that he is, of course, condoning mass murder, but he has to admit that Jeritza and the Death Knight obviously do not regret their actions for a reason.

Jeritza’s hand twitches in Byleth’s. “Do you think,” he says, softly, “that I… could have done things differently, back then?”

Byleth doesn’t answer — this question isn’t for him. The quiet stretches out, but it’s neither tense nor awkward, interspersed by the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves, and eventually Jeritza sighs again, the smallest of exhales. “No, never mind,” he murmurs. “Even if there were… If I had done anything differently, I would not have met you nor Ciel.”

A small price to pay for wiping a city off the map, Byleth supposes. “Let’s go home?”

Lysithea, arms crossed and scowl deep, is waiting for them at the estate’s entrance, as much as it can be called an entrance, and though she gives them a long-suffering sigh when they return, she says nothing as she prepares the Warp spell. Edelgard is pacing at the entrance hall of the palace when they arrive, and she jolts in evident surprise when she sees them. “You’re back! Thank you, Lysithea. Hubert returned just a few minutes ago as well, with the Agarthans. And, er, one dead body… is that something to be worried about?”

Jeritza shifts uncomfortably. “We may have taken… desperate measures.”

“Well, it’s fine,” Edelgard says, looking torn between confusion and resignation. “Two of them is already more than enough, after all. Ah, we can speak later if you’d like, I understand it’s still early in the morning and you must have had a long night — your usual room has been arranged. Ciel is dead asleep, as you might have expected,” she adds in an undertone. “Passed out in the kitchen when the chef told them to sit tight and wait for him to cut some fish up for them. Hopefully they’ll be awake enough for lunch, at least…”

Byleth itches to go see the supposed passed-out Ciel, but the exhaustion of the past several hours is finally catching up on him, and he and Jeritza stagger to their room to collapse bonelessly on the bed together. Soil and rock have nothing on the soft mattress and clean sheets, and Byleth forgets everything the instant he lays his head on the pillow and closes his eyes. They can leave everything else up to Hubert and the rest now — as far as Byleth is concerned, this nap is the most important thing in the world to him.

“Okay… so…” Luca frowns, his brows drawn together in clear confusion. “So the Nosferatu spell was… classified dark magic at first.” He waits for Lysithea to nod, then cautiously continues: “Because it absorbed the victim’s life force for the caster’s own usage. And that’s bad. But then… a modified version of it switched the roles, so that it would be like the caster… giving their life force to the victim?”

Even Lysithea looks relieved. “Correct. Finally.” She scrawls something on the notebook on her lap and gives the delighted-looking Luca a very professional pat on the shoulder. “Congratulations. You’ve proven you’re miles better at theory than at precise spell-casting. Take that as either a compliment or an insult, whichever you like.”

“Thank you,” Luca says cheerily, clearly having decided it was a compliment the instant Lysithea had opened her mouth. “Did I do well? I did, right?”

“Mm, yeah, yeah. Alright, you next.” Lysithea turns her critical gaze onto Ciel, before her eye twitches in irritation. “Hey, wake up! This is the third time you’ve fallen asleep now! I bet you regret staying up so late last night, don’t you?”

“Ugh…” Ciel’s head droops a little lower before they finally deign to sit up straighter, though not by a significant margin. “Lysi is too loud…”

“ _Too loud?_ If you don’t want me to burst your eardrums…”

“Now, now, it’s fine,” Bernadetta hurriedly interrupts, clearing her throat before Lysithea can get any more incensed. “Ciel works hard when they’re not tired! They answered everything correctly yesterday, didn’t they? Let’s all calm down… Ciel, do you want to nap a little first before we get back?”

Ciel sighs. “S’okay. Um… what’s the question?”

“What are you looking at?” Jeritza asks mildly.

Byleth draws back from the edge of the doorway, trying not to look too guilty about it. “Not much.” Lysithea and Bernadetta had likely noticed him peeking, but he couldn’t help stopping to watch when he happened to pass by and heard familiar voices from the room. Ciel has only ever asked them for help with swordsmanship and other weapon-related activities, never schoolwork, and the most Byleth has seen them study is whenever they’re deeply immersed in a book, so he has no idea where they stand, education-wise.

Jeritza makes a curious noise and peers inside, only allowing himself a few seconds before pulling away, looking thoughtful as he does so. “So they’re very smart, is that right,” he mutters to himself. Considering Byleth had just heard Ciel get the question wrong, he’s not sure how Jeritza had reached that conclusion, but he’s very much inclined to agree anyway.

“Shall we go?” Byleth asks, despite how he wants to stay and watch a little longer. “Hubert’s patience must be nearing its end after everything he’s probably had to do today.”

“Mm, let’s,” Jeritza agrees, with a similarly regretful air.

They navigate the palace’s winding halls and corridors until they finally descend the steep stone stairs down to the dungeons. This place is far from unfamiliar to Byleth, unfortunately enough — he can’t count the number of times he’d come down here, nor the number of hours he spent waiting in the corner for either Hubert or Jeritza to return from an interrogation session, covered in blood that isn’t theirs as the smell of unburied corpses from days past presses down on their lungs. Now…

Byleth wrinkles his nose. It still smells of blood, obviously, and there is no getting rid of the lingering stench of decay, but… despite the few lights on the walls, it’s cleaner, that much he can tell. So the palace staff scrubbed this place clean, it seems, and it hasn’t been in use much, if the thin layer of dust over where they walk is any indication. But deeper in he can hear faint, pained groans and what sounds vaguely like pages flipping. “Is it you two?” Hubert’s deep, slow voice echoes. “Hurry up. You took your time.”

“It was a good nap,” Jeritza says, like he’s stating a fact more than he’s trying to defend himself. They head further in the dungeons together, and Byleth does his best not to recoil when he sees the Agarthan sprawled out on the stone floor at Hubert’s feet. They don’t look much different from the last time Byleth had seen them, which must mean Jeritza had worn them down enough last night that interrogating them today hadn’t needed much effort at all…

Hubert only rolls his eyes, then holds up the account book. It looks more worn than Byleth remembers it being, but it _had_ survived what was most likely the most exciting night of its life; he’s surprised it’s intact at all. “You did… a decent job at getting this back, at least. It covers their expenses, which is all I need to understand what they’ve been doing so far.”

“Let me see?” Byleth takes the account book, squints at the messy handwriting, and reads aloud, “Lunch. Dinner. Breakfast… lunch… dinner… um, this is all very…”

“Not _that_ section,” an unfamiliar voice snaps.

Byleth’s hand shoots straight for the sword at his waist until Hubert gives him a curt shake of his head. Sitting in the shadows is the woman they’d noticed looking over this very account book, her eyes narrowed and her disheveled hair falling over her face. Unlike most Agarthans, she doesn’t look too touched by the drawbacks of dark magic yet, which might mean she’d only joined their ranks or started practicing it recently. “Oh, you’re the…”

She gives him a dirty look, then spits on the stone floor and looks sharply away. Unlike the Agarthan right next to her, she doesn’t look very… tortured. Most likely she had (wisely) cooperated with Hubert early on rather than try and struggle. “Che. How’d you not die from that Mire spell? I thought I had you then…”

“The Mire spell?” Jeritza steps forward, his earlier bored air melting completely under the sudden threatening aura he’s emanating. “That was you? Not the other Agarthans?”

Byleth’s a bit surprised too. He’d assumed the spell had been cast by the three Agarthans — two of them now dead, one of them likely about to be the same — after he’d knocked the woman out, but to think it had been her instead. Admirable how she had the time to cast a spell right before she’d gone unconscious, especially without either him nor Jeritza noticing. “Calm down, it doesn’t matter now,” he hurries to say, tugging Jeritza back before he can put his scythe to use. “Um, the finances…?”

Hubert retrieves the book and flips through it until he lands on a page filled with more than just food expenses. “Most of these are expenses on hiring the occasional scholar or mage for help with redeveloping their base, I imagine, and repairing the machines they used in their experiments. Futuristic technology,” he mutters, clicking his tongue, “paired with dark magic. Nothing new coming from them, certainly, but at least now we’ve confirmed it. This fool has admitted to what they were doing at Boramas as well.”

Jeritza frowns, finally breaking away from his glaring contest with the woman. “Kidnapping children for their experiments?”

“Precisely. The Luca boy was not an isolated case. We’ve already sent people to investigate the base, but…” Hubert massages his temples. “Some children had already died as a result of the experiments. Some died from being trapped underground with the Miasma spell. Either way, there were no survivors left down there.”

The silence that follows his words is heavy enough to be painful. Byleth looks down, fixing his gaze on a spot on the dirty stone floor. No survivors… he and Jeritza had spent hours waiting outside the base before actually following the passing Agarthans inside it. If they had just charged in right then and there, would they have been able to save anyone? It likely wouldn’t have gone as well as last night, when they had been able to catch almost everyone off-guard, but… would they at least have been able to save at least one innocent child?

Hubert closes the account book with a soft _thump._ “There is no use in dwelling on it,” he says. The sentence is something he has told them time and time again during both wars, whenever he would deliver news of casualties and other now long-dead victims they could have helped if they had done just one thing different, but when before his voice was hard and cold, now he just sounds resigned. “You did all you could.”

“That…” Byleth sighs and shakes his head. Perhaps it’s because he’s only grown softer since the wars ended, but thinking about how Luca, experimented on by the Agarthans, is now just a few floors above their heads and living a semi-normal life now… “What will you do now?”

“Wring the locations of the remaining Agarthan bases out of this one,” Hubert says, nudging the unconscious Agarthan on the floor with the tip of his boot, “and clear them out one by one before they can cause any more trouble. That should be all.”

“As for us?” Jeritza asks.

Hubert shakes his head. “Her Majesty was adamant that this be your last mission, at least for the foreseeable future, and I have no objections to that. We will only call for your help again if absolutely necessary, and I truly hope there will be no need for it. Speaking of, the compensation has been delivered to your address in Faerghus—”

“Compensation?” Byleth repeats, genuinely bewildered.

“—so do accept it once you return,” Hubert finishes, sighing. “Yes, compensation. Unlike the rest of us here, you are not directly affiliated with the Imperial Palace, and so this mission may well be equated to you working for us as mercenaries for hire. And mercenaries deserve compensation, do they not?”

Byleth glances up at Jeritza, somewhat relieved to see his own confusion mirrored in Jeritza’s gaze. “Well… since it has already been delivered, I suppose there is no reason to reject it,” Jeritza mutters, coughing in his fist. Sounding like it physically pains him to express any sort of goodwill towards Hubert, he grumbles, “We… appreciate… the generosity.”

“Why does it seem like you are expressing animosity instead?” Hubert asks dryly. Jeritza opens his mouth to retort with an equally poisonous remark, but Hubert cuts him off before he can start. “Forget it. Your business here is finished, unless you’d like to stay and chat with the prisoners. Collect your child and run back to your village already.”

With how long Byleth has known him, he’s aware this is Hubert’s way of telling them to go home safely. “Thank you, Hubert,” he says graciously, because it doesn’t look like Jeritza is going to, and they head out of the dungeon together. Being down in its stuffy darkness for even just a few short minutes already has Byleth missing the warmth and light of the rest of the palace, and he sighs as he stands in a sunbeam like one of the stray cats in their garden.

“So… no more missions for the foreseeable future,” Jeritza muses aloud. “I hope they will do fine without us then. I, for one, am not eager to engage in battle once more anytime soon.”

Byleth snorts. “If the you of the past had heard you say that, I imagine he would have rioted.”

“Let him. I have better things to do with my time,” Jeritza replies snootily. Those ‘better things’ are probably to read books and knit scarves for Ciel, Byleth privately thinks — not, of course, that he minds at all. He quite likes the knit hat Jeritza proudly presented him with last winter. “Shall we leave after… whenever Ciel’s tutoring sessions are finished? Hm, they still have regular school tomorrow… it should be fine if they miss a few days, yes?”

“Mm, alright.” Byleth stretches his arms in front of him. He wants nothing more than to take another nap, but he had nearly slept right through lunchtime earlier; if he sleeps now, he might only wake up the following morning. “I’ve grown rusty with my swordsmanship. Last night showed me as much. I’ll head to the training grounds first?”

It’s a clear invitation, at least for the two of them, but Jeritza only nods. “Then I shall be at the library if you need anything. Try not to overwork yourself.”

He’s already turning around and heading down the hall before Byleth can say anything else. He stares blankly at Jeritza’s retreating back, then lets a smile rest on his face. If the Jeritza of the past could see him now… If the Jeritza who had ran in the wilderness to escape from the bloodbath he left of Bartels, the Jeritza who wished so badly to die, could see him now, what would he think? What would he say?

…No, it doesn’t matter now. Byleth turns around to head towards the palace’s training grounds.

He goes through his usual exercises by himself for a while, spars with Ferdinand when he returns from what looks like a visit to Enbarr, then joins him and Linhardt for a cup of tea afterwards. Linhardt will be staying in the palace a little longer, it seems, to research more on all the interesting artifacts and machines they brought back from the Agarthans’ base. “And also because Valentine cannot get enough of the library here,” he sighs, taking a sip of his too-sweet-to-be-tea tea. “When he isn’t running around trying to get Luca to play with him, he’s holed up in there, probably trying to read every single book before we have to leave. It’s going to ruin his eyesight more than it’s already been.”

“I say, he very much takes after you, then,” Ferdinand says. In a slightly distressed tone, he asks Byleth, “I must ask, though, Professor… how _ever_ did you raise Ciel to be so, mm, what is the word… self-sufficient? I thought just keeping them away from the kitchen was difficult enough, but Luca has shown me the error in my thinking. Children are lovely things, but also quite a handful when you are not prepared for them…”

“Self-sufficient…” Byleth tilts his head. Is Ciel really like that? It’s more likely they had grown accustomed to being on their own considering they hadn’t had any friends at Mercedes’ orphanage, and that hadn’t left them despite coming into Byleth and Jeritza’s care. “Maybe it’s just in their nature. All children are different, aren’t they?”

Linhardt and Ferdinand exchange a look, then simultaneously give him a doubtful gaze. “Perhaps Ciel takes after you and Jeritza as well, Professor,” Linhardt says. His students are never going to stop using that nickname, are they.

Ciel runs out of their study room during a break, and Byleth bumps into them on his way back from the showers. “ _Byle,_ ” Ciel squeaks, immediately clinging to his arm. “Why didn’t you come _save me_ from Lysi. I hate studying, I wanna sleep, I wanna eat fish all day… where’s Jeri? Or is it still Jeri 2?”

Byleth doesn’t think he’s ever going to get used to Jeri 2. “It’s Jeri. He’s in the library, I think. We can go there toge—”

Ciel’s eyes go wide as saucers. “Wait… no… I’m tired of readin’ too. ‘M hungry… can we go get a snack, please? No books, no books. I have to go back to readin’ again in ten minutes…”

Byleth indulges them and heads down to the kitchen — lunch had just been a few hours ago, and he can’t be bothered to trouble any of the chefs to make something, so he pokes around in the kitchen in an attempt to understand just what all these appliances are. He knows this mysterious mechanism is called a ‘stove,’ and that apparently it’s all the rage in well-off households across the continent, but he himself has no idea how to use it. Ciel watches blankly as he fiddles with the strange-looking knobs. He’d spotted one of the chefs doing this to start the Fire spell…

A ring of fire flares to life when he twists one of the knobs. If he jolts backwards and pulls out his sword before sheathing it again after a few seconds of nothing happening, that’s only for Ciel to know. “Do you know how to use these, Ciel?” he eventually asks. Ciel has been spending time in the kitchen because of all the fish-cutting they’ve been doing, so it’s only logical they have some idea of how these stoves work.

Ciel frowns, looking deep in thought. “Um… mm… I dunno. I think the fire does all the work. Um…”

There’s hardly any time left until Ciel’s break ends and they have to be dragged back for the rest of their studies, so Byleth gives up on making anything on the stove and digs through the kitchen cabinets until he finds the ingredients for sweet buns, which take marginally less time to put together than most other meals. Ciel munches on them in contentment, then narrows their eyes when Luca pokes his head in the kitchen doorway. “Ah, there you are, Ciel,” he says, after greeting Byleth a good-afternoon. “It’s time to head back. Lady Lysithea is waiting.”

“Ugh…” Ciel sinks their teeth into the sweet bun like a wild animal tearing at their prey. Luca must think something along the same lines, because he pales — is he intimidated by Ciel, despite the obvious difference in age? Byleth supposes Ciel, good with swords and knives, would paint a rather threatening image to Luca, who is apparently well-versed in spellwork but crumples in physical exercise… “Do I gotta?”

Luca clears his throat nervously. “Um, uh, well… L-Lady Lysithea will get mad…”

Ciel seems to contemplate that for a moment, then looks down at the plate of sweet buns on their lap. There are still four left, after Ciel had burned through two and Byleth had taken one for himself. “I’ll bring these,” they declare, lifting the plate up as they hop off the edge of the kitchen counter.

Luca looks distressed. “Is food allowed inside?”

“It’s sweet buns,” Ciel says, like that’s meant to be a logical argument. “Byle, wanna come?”

“What will I do there?” Byleth asks, even as he gets up and follows Ciel and Luca to their study room.

Ciel shrugs, finishing off the last of their sweet bun to better hold the plate with both hands. “Dunno. Watch? If you know the answer to a question, can you just tell me? ‘Cause Lysi likes long explanations and stuff, but… why do I gotta explain everything I think… it’s so tiring,” they sigh. “I didn’t get it at first when Lin says talking is tiring, but he’s so right. Talking’s so tiring. I dunno how people like Vale do it.”

“But you’ve grown more talkative since we first met, haven’t you?”

Ciel contemplates that for a while. They’re already standing outside the study room’s doors, with Luca having ducked inside ahead of them to sit neatly on one of the two chairs by a desk. “I guess,” Ciel mumbles. “Um… it’s a little easier. With you and Jeri.”

This conversation is suddenly miles more important than getting Ciel to their studies on time. “What do you mean?” Byleth asks, crouching down to straighten Ciel’s wrinkled coat. It’s not cold enough in the palace for them to be wearing something like this, but Byleth supposes temperature has never stopped Ciel before.

Ciel shrugs again, looking shyer this time. “Because… I want to tell you stuff. I guess. I-I don’t know.” They make a vague gesture with their hands before dropping their arms back down to their sides. “‘Cause… before… felt like no one was gonna listen. So there’s no point. In talkin’.”

‘Before…’ Byleth sighs. Ciel had never mentioned anything about their past from before they had been brought into Mercedes’ orphanage, and neither Byleth nor Jeritza had ever pushed them to tell them anything either. It had been a cause for concern at first, but apart from Ciel refusing to call them ‘Father’ or anything similar and simply using their (nick)names instead, there didn’t seem to be anything particularly worrying, so it had eventually been pushed to the back of Byleth’s mind. Maybe now is as good a time as ever to ask them about it? He’ll have to know what happened to them someday if he wants to better understand them too.

Ciel sighs, drawing Byleth’s attention back to them. “But… um… with Byle and Jeri, it feels like… you’ll always listen. Right?” They blink up at Byleth. “When my… When those people left,” they mumble, and Byleth can only assume they’re talking about their biological family, “I thought… I kept thinkin’ I should’ve left with ‘em.”

“Where did they go?” Byleth gently asks.

“Dunno. Far away.” Ciel stares down at the carpeted floor beneath their feet. “Where do people go after they die?”

The question stuns Byleth more than he wants to admit. To both his relief and disappointment, Bernadetta rounds the corner at the same time, making a small noise of surprise when she sees them standing in front of the doorway. “Hello, Professor! Right on time, Ciel!” she greets cheerily, before staring at the two of them and taking a cautious step back. “Oh, uh, er, am I interrupting something…?”

Byleth’s not sure exactly what to say now, considering it’s probably his fault the conversation had steered towards this direction, but thankfully Ciel shakes their head. “‘M okay,” they say, clearly talking to Bernadetta but giving Byleth a look as well. Is it their own way of reassuring Byleth he hadn’t done anything wrong? “Let’s talk again later, Byle. Bring Jeri too!”

“A-Ah, right,” Byleth manages. He clears his throat, then pats Ciel’s head and straightens back up to stand. “Later, then. Good luck in class, Ciel.”

Ciel makes a terrible little face as they let themselves be ushered into the study room.

With Hubert and Lysithea’s combined efforts, they can Warp Byleth, Jeritza, and Ciel as far as Remire Village, which is already close enough to home that pushing them to go any further would be cruel. The sensation is more dizzying than usual — which is just to say, the same dizziness that Byleth had once grown used to during the wars — but to their surprise, Ciel only wobbles unsteadily a little after the spell before feeling fine again.

“Oh. Luca did a lot of that,” they ‘explain,’ when Jeritza asks how they’re feeling. “Y’know… teleportin’ and stuff. I mean, the Warp spell. Same thing.” Ciel makes a face again. “Did you know all these spells had really long names before that no one uses now? But Lysi made us memorize ‘em all anyway? When am I ever gonna need t’ know about any of that?”

Jeritza stares down at them. “Er… wait… go back. Luca? Warp spell? Is he not your age?”

Ciel shrugs. “Yeah. Why?”

Byleth coughs. “It was accidental most of the time, wasn’t it? I think Edelgard mentioned something about it the other day, about him trying out a variety of spells.” _And messing them up,_ he mentally adds. Plenty of magical power, but no idea how to put it to use… no wonder Lysithea’s teaching must seem hard to Ciel.

“Hmph…” Ciel crosses their arms. “Bet I could do it better than him.”

Leaving the village means the terrain is rocky and craggy due to the proximity to the Oghma Mountains. Ciel is undeterred, however — they rush around several times, observing every new thing with those big blue eyes of theirs as if staring at a peculiar-looking plant or flower could give them the answers to every one of their questions. When distracted like this, they don’t talk nearly as much, and most of the walk to Arundel territory is spent in comfortable silence until evening falls.

Sleeping out in the wilderness is nothing new for Byleth and Jeritza, obviously, but it might be Ciel’s first time — with them, at least, Byleth reminds himself. He hasn’t forgotten his brief conversation with them earlier, about their life before the orphanage, and he itches to bring it up again to see if they’re ready to speak about it. Thankfully they find a small streetside inn apparently specially built there for travelers who pass through Magdred Way, and they pay for a room with two beds despite Ciel’s unsubtle hints that they certainly wouldn’t mind sleeping outside near the woods. “Why not?” Ciel mumbles, giving up on any attempt at subtlety once the gold has passed hands. “You slept in a forest last night, right?”

“And you do not want to do the same,” Jeritza sighs. “A bed will always be the better option, unless incredibly tight on funds.” At the sullen look on Ciel’s face, Jeritza adds, “I promise it is hardly at all exciting as a life experience. You will be sleeping in the dirt and leaves and animal waste, and when you wake up the next morning you have five new insect bites scattered throughout your now-sore body. That is not something we would want to put you through.”

Ciel looks slightly pacified, but still tilts their head in thought. “Bugs are friends.”

“No.”

“Stick bug from before…”

“That wasn’t…” Jeritza sighs and seems to give up. “Let’s go to sleep.”

Ciel drops dead asleep on the bed after washing up, probably having tired themselves out from running around all day. Byleth tucks the blankets under their chin and sits at the edge of the other bed, already feeling drowsy when Jeritza comes out of the shower. “Thank you for leaving some hot water for me,” he grumbles, toweling off his hair. “Truly appreciate it.”

Byleth raises his hands up in a mock-defensive position. “I must remind you, I am not the one who spent several minutes in there.” Ciel had probably just been excited at the concept of a bathroom they haven’t been in before, strange as the sentence sounds. Every new thing is a novelty to them, no matter if the aforementioned new-thing is at all interesting to the average person. “Speaking of which, though, I… spoke to them a bit earlier.”

“Mm.” Jeritza sits down beside him, the bed dipping under his weight. “What about?”

“Their… life from before Mercedes’ orphanage.”

Jeritza visibly stills at that, and Byleth hurries to add, “It wasn’t much, really. Just… confirmation that their biological family died sometime during the war, and that they were left alone afterwards. Most of it is already what we’d previously assumed.” He chances a glance at Ciel, and though they shift under the sheets a little, they don’t wake up. “I doubt they’ve forgotten about it, but… hopefully when they feel up to speaking about it again, you’ll be there as well.”

“Of course,” Jeritza says. It should probably be a given by now that his answer comes lightning-quick, but Byleth feels a small smile tug at the corners of his lips anyway. He goes quiet, staring silently at Ciel’s sleeping form for a moment, before saying, “This morning… that had been him again, hadn’t it? The Death Knight.”

“Oh.” Byleth contemplates it for a moment, then nods. “I would have preferred it if you just believed you were sleepwalking…”

Jeritza snorts. “It was obvious. More importantly, this time was… different.” He pauses again, a thoughtful look on his face, before continuing slowly, as if thinking about his words as he speaks them. “I remember a bit more than usual. He spoke to you… and to Ciel, through the telepathy spell. Did he not?” At Byleth’s careful nod, he sighs and looks away. “I cannot remember the exact words. What happened?”

Byleth wracks his head for any relevant information — not of the brief conversation from this morning, but of the last time Ciel and the Death Knight had interacted. Jeritza knows about ‘Jeri 2,’ obviously, but does he remember how the Death Knight had spoken back when Ciel had felt down about being pushed around by the other students in school? “He… told me a bit about how he came to be, I suppose.”

Jeritza frowns. He doesn’t look particularly guarded like Byleth had been half-expecting, just a bit confused, as if he can’t fathom the concept of the Death Knight starting a civil conversation at all. Byleth can’t blame him. “You mean when I killed that man. And all the rest.”

Byleth rather prefers he had left that obvious bit unspoken. “Well… yes.”

“Is that it?” Jeritza looks even more confused now. “Bit of an old topic.”

There’s probably no point in working his way up to it. Byleth sighs and says, “He told me to raise Ciel well.”

There is a brief pause. Then, as if the words had only processed in Jeritza’s brain now, his brows shoot up to nearly disappear under his hairline. “Ciel?”

“There were no other children around for him to refer to, so…”

“But that is… unlike him. Coming out and not immediately trying to kill you had been difficult enough to get used to, but…” Jeritza sighs and looks away, his expression utterly bewildered. “Take care of Ciel… as if we would not have done that without his instruction. But I… do understand why he might have said that. Just a bit, mind,” he adds, turning sharply back to face Byleth again, as if Byleth might get the wrong idea about something. “I must admit I saw… a bit of myself, when we first met them.”

It’s the same thing the Death Knight had said. Somehow, Byleth does not find this the least bit surprising. “You did?”

Jeritza nods. “Quiet. Nervous. Lonely. The like. The Death Knight is… ironically enough, probably the person who understands myself the most in this world, and I him. He was born out of the need to protect my family, but gradually that was forgotten over the years as he let himself be consumed by bloodlust.” He sighs. “Ciel… must have reminded him of his original purpose. After some reminiscing on the past while we were at Bartels too, I imagine,” he dryly adds. “I am not the type to sleepwalk to such a specific spot.”

Byleth scratches his cheek. He has no idea what spot Jeritza is referring to, but it must have been important for both him and the Death Knight. Perhaps even now he remembers where he had left the corpses he created with his own hands before escaping the city-turned-forest. “I apologize. I did mean to tell you about it afterwards, but… er, we fell asleep.”

“No, it’s alright. I would have taken that nap over just about anything,” Jeritza easily says. “Speaking of sleeping, I would very much like that for ourselves right now.”

It takes them a little under a week to return to their village, traveling on foot sometimes and riding in carriages other times. At some point Jeritza finally gives in to letting them sleep in the wild, largely because they could find no inns between Magdred Way and Gaspard territory, and Ciel is excited enough that they even offer to help set up the tent. “Are you not worried in the least?” Jeritza asks, clearly distressed, in the middle of starting the fire.

Byleth just shrugs. “Isn’t it a learning experience for every child to camp out like this?”

“You… Just what sort of learning experiences did you have…”

Even after it is several minutes past their usual bedtime, Ciel sits wide awake, peering out of the tent flap to stare at just about everything around them — the trees, the plants, the fire Byleth tends to during first watch. Logically enough Byleth knows he should coax them to sleep before they end up an exhausted mess tomorrow morning, but instead he only turns around to fully face their curious gaze. “Do you know any constellations, Ciel?”

“Constellations… like, the star patterns?” Ciel frowns. “Luca does. He said Bernie taught him one time, but I only know the Fell Star.”

Now that is a name Byleth hasn’t heard in a while. He keeps his expression neutral as Ciel shuffles over to sit beside him on the log, the fire reflected in their electric-blue eyes. “Bernadetta didn’t teach you that, did she?”

Ciel shakes their head. “Green friend.”

That’s obviously not Linhardt, either, else they simply would have called him by (nick)name. Byleth allows himself a slow exhale — so, what, had Sothis decided they weren’t providing Ciel enough quality education and took matters into her own hands at some point? It sounds terribly like her, and for a moment that ache in Byleth’s chest twinges in pain, like a wound that had never fully healed after the war. “Could you point the Fell Star out for me, then?”

Ciel scans the night sky quietly, then points up without hesitation. “That one. It’s always the brightest no matter the season, right?”

“Yes. And always visible.” Despite being well aware it will do absolutely nothing, Byleth smooths down some ruffled strands of brown hair anyway, his hand lingering on the streaks of light brown mixed in them. The first time he had noticed them, he had assumed Ciel had been playing with flour or something, or that it had just been the specific way afternoon sunlight fell on their hair, but… it had clearly come to be after the first time they mentioned ‘green friend,’ hadn’t it? It feels so long ago now, before Ciel had even decided on a name for themselves, and before they could speak as much as they do now.

Byleth smiles as the ruffled hair he had just flattened springs back up again. If Ciel grows it out any longer than they already have, it would look more than a touch similar to Sothis’ hair. “I know a few constellations. Do you want me to show you?”

Ciel’s eyes widen, and they scramble up to make themselves comfortable in Byleth’s lap. “Okay!” Under their breath, they mutter, “‘M gonna show that Luca next time.”

Predictably enough, they fall asleep three constellations in, and Byleth is willing to bet they are hardly going to remember any of those three in the morning, but he finds that he doesn’t much care. The sky is clear of clouds, moonlight and starlight alike shining down on them, and despite how his legs are starting to go numb from Ciel’s weight, Byleth can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else but here and now.

He hears fabric shuffle behind him, but doesn’t need to look to know it’s just Jeritza coming out from the tent. “I thought they’d be here,” he sighs, looking down at Ciel curled up against Byleth’s chest. “Go on back inside. First watch is done… although I would not have known if not from habit alone. Why did you not wake me?”

“Hmm. I’m comfortable,” Byleth says. Jeritza sits down beside him, staring idly up at the sky. “Did you overhear us?” he asks, smiling faintly when Jeritza turns to face him.

Jeritza is quiet for a long while, only staring wordlessly at Byleth’s face, and when the silence has been stretched long enough Byleth clears his throat and ventures, “What? Is something on my face?”

“No, I…” Jeritza pointedly does not look away. “I was thinking you smile more often now.”

“Did I… not before?”

Jeritza finally averts his gaze, choosing to stare at the flickering flames before them instead, and Byleth allows himself a moment to breathe. He’s used to Jeritza by now, obviously, but being subjected to such an intense stare is still a bit… “Not during the wars, no,” he says. Firelight dances in his eyes. “But ever since we came to live together, and we grew more… I suppose the word is comfortable… with each other, I… noticed it. I have been noticing it, for quite a while now.”

Byleth blinks, slowly. It doesn’t seem that important to him — is it not only natural to smile more often now that the fighting is over and they are safe and happy at home? “Well… as for me,” he says, shifting slightly to come closer to Jeritza, “I think you’ve certainly improved in the art of smiling.”

“What is that supposed to mean.”

“What? Do not tell me now you don’t remember when you smiled at some poor student who lent Ciel their umbrella one day after school and they ran away crying because they thought you were glaring at them.”

“I remember nothing of the sort,” Jeritza protests, though the faint red creeping up his neck gives him away. “And… anyway, if something like that did occur… which it did not… it is hardly _my_ fault children cannot understand my facial expressions.”

His current glare is too endearing for Byleth not to lean over and kiss him. Jeritza makes a muffled noise of surprise, but reciprocates quickly enough afterwards; Byleth had meant for it to be brief and chaste, but then one of Jeritza’s hands comes up to cup his cheek, sword calluses rough and warm, and suddenly Byleth cannot think about anything else but right now, in this moment. He twists his upper body as best as he can to lean further into Jeritza’s lips, sighing in contentment when—

“…Ew…”

Byleth draws back right away, but Ciel is already staring at them with clear disdain on their face. The expression is so distinct from their usual mild complacence that Byleth can’t help a snort. “I’m sorry. Did we wake you up?”

“Unfortunately,” Ciel says.

“Your Hubert imitation is very good,” Jeritza commends.

Ciel brightens just like that. “Thanks. I worked hard.” Apparently, while regular academic teaching works fine with them, they still learn best from simply observing and copying other people. This means they end up learning an extremely wide variety of things that Byleth is fairly sure are not in the normal curriculum for six-year-olds, but he supposes that’s all part of collecting life experiences too, Hubert’s vocabulary and all. Byleth supposes he can’t complain either considering the faith magic Ciel learned from watching Mercedes had saved Jeritza’s life once.

Jeritza just sighs. “It is late, Ciel. If you stay up any longer, you are going to be dragging your feet the whole way tomorrow while we walk. Come in already and go back to sleep.”

“Mm…” Ciel doesn’t move, still nestled comfortably on Byleth’s lap, and they don’t look particularly pressured to return to the tent either. Finally, just as Jeritza seems ready to pick them up and zip them up inside their sleeping bag himself, Ciel opens their mouth again. “Before… I slept outside a lot before.”

That gives both Byleth and Jeritza pause. “Before Mercedes found you?” Byleth asks, speaking as slowly as possible.

Ciel nods. Their eyes are wide open, staring straight into the fire. “When those people left,” they mumble — Byleth can only assume they once again mean their biological family — “I… didn’t know where to go. The city was so big. So many people… so noisy. Even at night, it was so noisy. I… I couldn’t hear myself talk. When I opened my mouth… When I said something… I couldn’t hear it.” They swallow, folding their knees up to their chest to wrap their arms around themselves. “But I could hear everyone else… all the screams and shouts and… explosions, sometimes…”

They take a deep breath, exhale, shake their head. “I never saw stars like this,” Ciel murmurs. “The sky was always smoky.”

None of them speak for a long while. Byleth, with no idea as to what to do with a shaking child in his lap, very carefully sets his hand on Ciel’s head to stroke their hair — it takes a while, but eventually Ciel goes still again, no longer as tightly wound up as earlier. Even after that they all remain quiet, sitting gathered around the warm fire and watching it slowly die down.

Byleth’s not sure if it’s the late hour, his hair-stroking, or how Ciel must not be used to speaking about a topic as heavy as this, but eventually their breathing begins to even out, face half-pressed to his chest again. He doesn’t stop moving his hand, but he does quietly ask, “Sleepy? Do you want to go inside?”

Ciel shakes their head, flyaway strands of hair bouncing on their head. “Stay.” Their grip on Byleth’s shirt tightens, and for a very brief moment Byleth thinks he can see himself in that tiny fist, holding on tight to Father’s chest in those moments before he would go into battle. Ciel is still so small, as small as they were when they had first met, and Byleth thinks of what the Death Knight had said, how this child reminded him of himself and to raise them well.

“Alright.” Byleth wraps one arm around Ciel’s shoulders. “For as long as you need.”

Ciel falls asleep quickly enough after that, their breathing going deep and even, and though Byleth should really get up and carry them to their sleeping bag inside the tent before the blood circulation in his legs gets completely cut off, he stays seated and resigns himself to his fate. Jeritza is quiet still, staring contemplatively at Ciel’s face, before he shifts closer and stretches his arms out. “Let me for a while.”

“Thank you,” Byleth sighs, gently picking Ciel up to place them in Jeritza’s care for now. Jeritza settles them carefully on his lap, looking several parts confused, as if this is one life experience he still hasn’t gone through. The silence falls heavy on them again, and though Byleth knows he should say something about what had just happened, he can’t find the right words, nor does he even know what he should say at all.

Unexpectedly enough, it’s Jeritza who speaks first. “What they said…”

“It’s awful.”

“Yes. But it is also…” Jeritza looks away. “Also exceedingly… commonplace.”

Byleth stares at him. “Common?” He can’t disagree with that — who knows just how many children had become orphans because of the war, and how many more died because of it — but to put it that way is callous, even considering how they both value straightforwardness. “That’s a bit…”

“I can guarantee plenty of other children in Sister’s orphanage have experienced something similar before she took them in. Ciel’s story is likely no different from theirs.” Jeritza pauses, then takes a deep, shuddering breath. He places his hand atop Ciel’s head, and Byleth blinks, taken aback — Jeritza’s hand is trembling, not enough to wake Ciel but enough for Byleth to notice. “Commonplace. And yet, I…”

 _Oh._ Byleth sighs again, trying to hide the fond exasperation in it. So that was just a roundabout way of saying he cares for Ciel, isn’t it? “I understand,” he says, moving closer to rest his head upon Jeritza’s shoulder. “But we are doing what we can now, are we not? Back then they hardly even spoke a word.”

Jeritza nods. He dips his head down slightly to press the lightest of kisses on the crown of Ciel’s head. “May I ask you something?”

“What is it?” Byleth murmurs, stifling a yawn.

“Is there… anything in the past you regret having done?”

Somehow, Byleth just knows this is a question he’s been asked before, by someone else if not Jeritza. He hums thoughtfully, mulling over what he could say. It would be difficult — and a lie, besides — if he said there wasn’t, because even just the first war had been rife with regrets for him. Over and over he had asked himself if he could not have convinced his former students to calm down and understand things from their perspective, or if he could have recruited them to the Empire’s side even earlier on. Others may say that enough time has passed for him to forget about them by now, but they had been people, too, barely any older than the children he still sometimes remembers them as — Byleth cannot even fathom the concept of forgetting them.

Is there a way they could have avoided a war? Could they have reformed Fódlan some other way? Could Sothis still be with him now? Could Rhea have been convinced to change her ways? Could Edelgard? Could all those countless children like Ciel have been saved, and could all those countless children still be living, laughing with their families now?

“Far too many,” Byleth eventually answers. “But they happened in the past for a reason. We are here now, Jeritza.” He reaches up to touch the ring resting between his collarbones, the blue gemstone winking at the firelight, and the cold steel under his fingers is more reassuring than he had expected it to be. “We can only ever be here.”

It falls quiet again, but less awkward and more comfortable. Byleth sighs, closing his eyes — he’d been growing steadily sleepier as the night progressed, fully attentive while Ciel had been speaking only to immediately return to exhaustion as soon as they fell asleep as well. He presses closer to Jeritza, inhaling his familiar scent. Tomorrow they’ll cross through Gaspard territory and hopefully reach Arianrhod by nightfall, which means they’ll also hopefully be able to sleep on a bed in an inn room rather than out in the wilderness once more… eat some decent food at a tavern…

Beside him Jeritza shifts, and Byleth stirs briefly awake, only to hum in contentment when Jeritza pulls him closer with one arm around his shoulders. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Here… and that is home, isn’t it?”

Byleth doesn’t answer — there’s no need to. Tomorrow and for the next handful of days they will travel again until they reach the village where their cottage rests, but right here, right now, he knows it — they are at home.

When the war against the Immaculate One ended, Byleth felt vaguely like he had lost his reason for living. Finding out Sothis’ heart had been implanted within him had been one thing, but at least that meant he now understood what he had to accomplish — once he had accomplished exactly that, though, he was left with a beating heart and no knowledge of what would come with it. The Sword of the Creator no longer listened to him either, and Jeritza had to forcefully wrench it out of his Crestless grasp before the Relic turned him into a Demonic Beast the same way it did with Miklan and Dedue.

“I don’t understand,” Byleth whispered, watching helplessly as Bernadetta, having been passing by and eager to help, carried the sword down into the Holy Mausoleum for safekeeping until someone figured out what to do with it. “I… What do I do now?”

Jeritza stared down at him, seemingly as expressionless as ever. But enough time had passed by then that Byleth liked to think he could understand Jeritza’s most enigmatic looks, and upon closer inspection he could sense some sort of emotion akin to fondness in his eyes. “You are not a fool, so do not try and convince me you are one. Did we not salvage the Seiros Sword from that dragon’s corpse?”

Only Jeritza could refer to the Immaculate One as ‘that dragon’ like Rhea had been nothing more than another Demonic Beast. Byleth sighed and muttered complaints under his breath the whole way, but he had to admit the Seiros Sword was not the worst replacement for his previous weapon.

Days turned into weeks. Reconstruction efforts had already begun in the areas of Fódlan most ravaged by the war, particularly Fhirdiad and other cities in Faerghus, and Byleth helped clear out the remaining ranks of Seiros knights that refused to surrender despite their leader’s death. He watched as Hubert worked himself to the bone, reading and writing reports until the ink stains on his fingers were indistinguishable from the scars dark magic left on his palms; he watched as Ferdinand began to take over governing some of the smaller areas too far for Edelgard to personally handle, often getting on his horse and riding all the way to the edges of the continent to hear out the people’s voices with his own ears.

“Do you wish to accompany us in the war against the Agarthans, my teacher?” Edelgard asked, when Byleth had more or less recovered from what he can only describe as the reboot of his heart. It was around a month after Rhea had fallen and Fódlan had been united under the Adrestian flag, and everyone was busier than ever in the monastery preparing for what to do next. “I will not force you, of course, nor will I fault you for declining—”

“Of course,” Byleth said, and that was that.

Other soldiers ( _students,_ Byleth may have said, once, but there were no students here any longer, only battle-hardened, war-torn children who had grown up too fast) had declined. Linhardt retired to a life of research in what he called ‘the countryside’ but could frankly be better described as ‘in the middle of nowhere,’ while Dorothea planned to use the compensation money from the war to travel to Brigid and see Petra again. Bernadetta and Marianne, while averse to any more fighting, opted to stay on as two more of Edelgard’s advisors.

And then there was Mercedes.

“Sister, I beg of you to rethink your decision,” Jeritza groaned, for what felt like the hundredth time. “It is not that I discourage you from pursuing your life’s passion, but _must_ it be in one of the more populated villages in Faerghus? The Agarthans—”

“They are still running wild, yes,” Mercedes agreed. She didn’t look up from the property papers in her hand; she hardly seemed to be paying attention to them. “But you will be dealing with them, won’t you, Emile? And you as well of course, Byleth.”

“Er, well… I suppose,” Byleth allowed. Mercedes was one of the few in the Strike Force who no longer called him _Professor,_ though she sometimes teased him with it. Considering many of them were a few years older than him now, it only felt right. “I must agree with Jeritza, though. We already know the Agarthans have intel on all of us, even if only our names and faces, and being here… it’s risky.”

Mercedes smiled, a small, sad thing. “It is, isn’t it? But it would be harder to take in children in need of a home when I am far away from cities and villages. And have you forgotten that I did more than just heal when we were in the war?”

Jeritza massaged his temple like a massive headache was coming on, but Byleth couldn’t disagree with Mercedes either. She excelled in healing, of course, but he had also seen how she could get when provoked; being on the other end of her Ragnarok spell was not something he was particularly aspiring to achieve. “ _Sister,_ ” Jeritza sighed, heavily, but no other words left him, as if he had already given up without knowing it.

“There is nothing you can say that will change my mind, though I appreciate your concern,” Mercedes said, laughing softly. She turned to Byleth, apparently finished driving her brother to exhaustion, and spoke. “Byleth. I trust you and Emile will watch each other’s backs in this next war, won’t you?”

“What? Oh, um…” Byleth shrugged. “Well, yes, of — of course. We are in this together.”

Jeritza turned away silently, while Mercedes giggled. “Yes. You are.”

Compared to Claude, Dimitri, and the Immaculate One, the Agarthans were little match against the might of the Strike Force, however few they had grown; they were caught off guard by ancient dark magic spells more than once, but after they infiltrated the library in Shambhala and pored over the spellbooks, the fights grew easier (or less difficult) to bear. And always, Byleth found himself darting forward to intercept an attack meant for Jeritza, or being pushed to the side for Jeritza to shield him instead. They fought and fought and time and time again Byleth leaned against Jeritza just to feel the reassuring press of his back against his own.

It was a feeling he found impossible to put into words. When had their relationship developed into something like this, unspeakable and indescribable, unfamiliar yet… not entirely unpleasant? All Byleth truly knew was the stutter of his newly-beating heart when Jeritza bandaged his arm for him, the heat in his chest when either of them stepped too close to the other and all Byleth could see was the flutter of Jeritza’s pale lashes against the tops of his cheeks.

Unspeakable. Indescribable. Unfamiliar… and not just _not unpleasant,_ but something more than that, something that made Byleth want to return to Jeritza’s side, over and over again, as many times as it took, as many times as he needed until he could perhaps understand this feeling growing between them.

In Shambhala, during one of their battles, one of many where they stood back-to-back against hordes of Agarthans, Jeritza spoke. “Once we exterminate the rats lurking below ground, and all of this madness is settled… Once that finally happens, all of this will long be forgotten. And we shall indulge in the finer things. Together.”

All Byleth could think of was that it was unlike him to initiate conversation during battle. But the thought of spending a future with Jeritza sounded nice, and it would give him days upon days on end to learn more about this man outside of fighting. “Yes,” Byleth said, turning to give him a small smile. “I look forward to it.”

“I am glad.” Jeritza struck down an Agarthan soldier foolish enough to come near, and blood splattered across the blade of his scythe. The other enemies kept their distance, forming a cautious circle around them rather than approaching recklessly. “You must understand, I… It is not so easy to make peace with my past,” Jeritza continued, lowering his weapon. Byleth blinked up at him in confusion. “I am not someone you can so easily spend time with. No matter what the demon inside me, the Death Knight, he will continue to eat away at me until I give in control to him. But when I am with you… you make me feel selfish enough to want to stay by your side, still.”

“I would not let you leave me, anyway,” Byleth argued, turning away from their enemies as well. He could hardly care about any of their incoming attacks now, when this conversation seemed miles more important at the moment. “Death Knight or not, I will be with you if you’d have me. You act as if I haven’t encountered him more than once.”

Jeritza stared down at him, something like surprise flickering across his gaze. It was so rare of him to express anything with that neutral mask of his that Byleth momentarily blanked out. “You… would stay by me, then, despite everything else I bring?”

“Always,” Byleth answered. He did not think; there was no need to.

A pause. Even their enemies, motionless in the corners of Byleth’s vision, seemed reluctant to come close and ruin the odd atmosphere between them. Then Jeritza turned away, another strange emotion crossing his face. “Byleth,” he said, and Byleth’s heart definitely did not jump up into his throat just then, “I think I may love you.”

Byleth blanked out. “You… do?”

“I am not one to mince my words, no.”

“Oh.” He mulled that over for a while. Emotions. He had only recently begun to truly understand them as a part of himself rather than just seeing them reflected on other people’s visages, and _love_ was something he was still uncertain about. Was it love when he was sure he would follow Edelgard’s orders no matter how long he had to fight or how many lives he had to take? Was it love when he brought Hubert coffee in the dead of night and stayed with him in his office until dawn?

Was it love when everything about Jeritza once made him want to flee but now only made him want to draw closer and closer until they could walk side-by-side through the end of this war and onto the rest of their journey in this life?

“Yes,” Byleth said; then, at the confusion on Jeritza’s face, “I feel the same.”

(He would, of course, promptly misunderstand the entire conversation and live with Jeritza for nearly a year under the impression that they were just friends. It’s fine — he understands now, better than he would have if Jeritza had tried to explain it back then.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some miscellaneous notes about the kids at academy ages:
> 
> ciel (17 y.o, 156cm): they stay short forever. their personality development goes from shy & quiet -> quiet -> quiet around strangers -> mildly disdainful to strangers -> "you have the audacity to speak to me? know your place." to strangers. hubert is a bad influence  
> \- strengths: sword, faith, riding (holy knight or trickster)  
> \- weaknesses: lance, authority
> 
> aveline (17 y.o, 178cm): she shoots up like a beanpole at around 10-11 y/o and ciel hates her forever. she regularly spars with her own wyvern for fun (they met when it tried to eat her and she beat it down, they become BFFs for life afterwards)  
> \- strengths: lance, authority, flying (falcon knight or wyvern lord)  
> \- weaknesses: reason, faith, heavy armor  
> \- budding talent: brawling
> 
> luca (19 y.o, 179cm): he eventually becomes the imperial heir to the throne, to much initial backlash from the masses due to his supposed agarthan origins & his lack of blood relation to edelgard. ferdinand had him help at the stables a few times which is how luca grows to like horses (they don't talk, and they like him despite the dark magic).  
> \- strengths: bow, reason, riding (bow knight, dark knight, or holy knight)  
> \- weaknesses: sword, axe, faith, flying  
> \- budding talent: faith, authority (hey luca, why do your parents let you have two budding talents!?)
> 
> valentine (18 y.o, 167cm): he doesn’t know lin & cas used to be in the strike force, and when he finds out he blames them for the destruction of his village for a while. [also here's another picrew of him cuz he's my little meow meow](https://twitter.com/nyansooyoung/status/1334435879654318080)  
> \- strengths: reason, faith (gremory)  
> \- weaknesses: bow, authority (linhardt's strengths, caspar's weaknesses LOL)
> 
> also re: agarthan lady, i care her

**Author's Note:**

> you can find designs for ciel, aveline, valentine, and luca (in that order) [here](https://twitter.com/featherxs/status/1343536995713224705)
> 
> thank you for reading (❁´◡`❁) if you liked this, check out [this tweet](https://twitter.com/featherxs/status/1239788477807349760)!


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